When Winter Strikes
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: James Barnes was Khalidor's most dangerous weapon - until somehow, he managed to shake loose their hold and return to the city he was told is his home. Starting a new life whilst remembering his old one, James seeks penance for his actions under Khalidor's control; but when a dangerous new threat is uncovered, he could stand to loose everything all over again.
1. Your Past for Your Future

**AN: **If you haven't read Brent Week's Night Angel Trilogy, I highly recommend it - it is possibly my favourite series of books ever. I actually came up with this idea when I was trying to get to sleep, and managed to remember it next morning - so this is my attempt to actually turn the idea into something 'tangible'. If you've already read my other multi-chapter pieces, you might have some idea at how awful I am at updating work, but I'm really gonna try with this piece! (Comments and Favourites actually go a long way, so please drop one or the other if you like this!)

You'll be forgiven if you get a little confused during the story - I'm still working out some of the details, but hopefully it'll develop as I go along... :S Anyway - enjoy! xx

* * *

When Winter Strikes

**1. Your Past for Your Future**

The first thing that James was aware of was that he was lying down on some sort of makeshift bed: a lot of blankets on a smooth stone floor, and the next thing he was aware of was that he wasn't alone. A young, dark-haired man in brown robes was tending to a pot of something brewing by what appeared to be the entrance to the cave they were in, his back to James, and something about the man set him on edge. He couldn't remember how he got here – wherever 'here' was – nor where he'd come across this man, and that, in James' eyes, made him a threat.

Before he could act, however, the stranger turned and saw him attempting to sit up. "Ah," he said, "you're awake. Good." He stood up and made his way over, his movements calm and careful.

James pushed himself the rest of the way up, eyeing the man warily. "Where am I?"

"You don't remember?" He shook his head, and the young man sighed. "I see. You're in the southern side of the mountains that split Khalidor and Cenaria. The Plith River isn't too far away."

"Why am I here?"

"I found you wandering aimlessly at the bottom of the range. You collapsed, and I brought you here so that you could recover."

"And you are?"

His rescuer smiled. "My name is Charles Xavier. Might I return the question?"

James opened his mouth to answer but found himself faltering. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

Xavier frowned. "You don't remember?"

"No, no, it's not that… It's just that I've… had a few names lately."

"Well, which one would you like me to call you?" It was a gentle, understanding tone, and James began to suspect he had nothing to fear from this man.

"James."

He nodded. "How are you feeling, James?"

"Confused," he said as his stomach rumbled. "And hungry."

"I thought you might be," Xavier said with a chuckle, returning to the pot at the cave's entrance. "I began preparing this for when you woke up. Perfect timing, really." A stew of some sort was ladled into a wooden bowl and offered his way. "Would you like some?" He eyed it suspiciously, making Xavier laugh. "It's just rabbit stew. I caught one this morning."

James decided to risk it, and found that actually, he was hungrier than he thought. Xavier let him have another bowl, asking him questions while he ate: was he from Cenaria? Did he have family there? How long had he been away? Where had he been going and why? Sensing genuine curiosity, James answered as honestly as he dared – he'd been told he was from Cenaria, though he had no memories of living there, and all he knew was that he had to get over the border, but he couldn't think why. "The last thing I remember is completing the job I was on, and then I knew I had to return."

"Where do you think you're returning to?"

Frowning, he shifted through his memories, trying to retrace his steps. "Khalidor."

"Khalidor?" Xavier's eyebrows rose. "What on earth are you going there for?"

He shrugged, swallowing another spoonful of stew. "That's where I always go after completing a job."

"And what is your profession, exactly?" James hesitated. There were lots of things he could say: carpenter, tailor, artist, architect… But for some reason, he didn't want to lie any more than he wanted to tell the truth. As it was, his silence seemed to speak for him. Xavier nodded. "I see." His eyes flicked to James' left side, and he asked, "Is that how you lost your arm? In a fight?"

"Yeah." An unusual fight, and one he'd rather not remember, but Xavier didn't need to know all the gruesome details. Memory loss or no, James would never forget that fight, nor the process that produced his replacement limb: a metal one, a mirrored duplicate of his right arm. Though it behaved just like a real arm would, he often wondered if it would turn on him at some point in the future – or perhaps even now.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," Xavier said, softly cutting off his train of thought, "but might I take a closer look at it? I've never seen anything of the sort in my life." Wordlessly, James set his bowl down and held it out, allowing the man to run his hands just above it and inspect the join at his shoulder. "Fascinating," he murmured; "The weaves that are holding it together are quite complex."

"Weaves?" James echoed. "You're a mage?"

Xavier gave him a small smile, and up close, James could see that he had unusually coloured eyes – a warm gold, it seemed. "Yes, I was trained in the ways of magic," he admitted. "My fellow magi believed I could go on to do great things, but we disagreed on what defined 'great things'. At present, people think I'm dead – I think it would be best to keep things that way for a while."

"Why would they think that?"

He chuckled bitterly. "One of those friends decided to prove that she was stronger than me. It didn't end well."

"For her?"

"For both of us." James tried not to dwell on what that meant as Xavier went back to examining his arm. "How long have you had this?"

He shrugged. "For as long as I can remember."

"Since childhood?"

James shook his head. "I don't remember my childhood."

"Really?" Xavier studied him, a deep frown ruining his otherwise youthful features. "There's a lot you don't seem to remember; I wonder if…" He trailed off, eyes widening as they travelled to James' head.

He swallowed. "What?"

"I don't want to alarm you, James," the mage began, "but whoever gave you your arm replacement added more than just protective weaves to you."

"Like what?"

"Like memory blocks." Xavier moved closer to his head, eyes burning with disbelief and… disgust? "I don't know what to say," he breathed.

"Why?" James was getting anxious. He suddenly felt like he needed to keep absolutely stock still, in case he dislodged something and damaged his brain. "What's it look like?"

Xavier's fingertips brushed his hair. "Someone has edited your memory," he explained, "only they've done it hundreds of times. There are so many layers to this weave, and the bottom layers look much, much more complex than the top ones." He sat back on his heels. "James, whoever's been doing this to you has been doing it for years."

The news didn't shock him. It was a surprise, but part of him sort of… already knew. His memory was patchy at the very least – the earliest moment of his life that he could recall was losing his arm, but he'd be damned if he could tell you how old he was when that happened. Hell, he wasn't even sure how old he was now! He guessed he was close to twenty, maybe a little over, which would mean that the first twenty years of his life had been stolen from him, stripped from his mind. Not to mention all the blanks he encountered between getting a new arm and now; how much of his life had been made a mystery to him?

"There are four people besides myself who have the ability to do this," Xavier was saying darkly. "Two of them don't have the heart to be so cruel; one of them is dead; and the other went missing a long time ago, although…" He trailed off, then refocused his attention back on James' face. "Can you remember who created the weaves for your arm?" he asked. "I need a name, or something significant."

"I never knew his name," James said, "but I think he wore a cape."

"A cape?"

"Yeah. With a fancy collar."

Xavier let out a noise of despair, eyes closing. "Stephen," he whispered. When he opened his eyes again, he looked sad. "You work for the Khalidorans, don't you?"

To confirm his suspicions would be to lose this mage's aid, yet after all he had done for him, James didn't want to deceive him anymore. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about this man made him… hopeful. So he nodded; "But your friend, he was forced to make these weaves. The Meisters supervised him, but I'm pretty sure they had something over his head."

"I know," Xavier said, a small and weary smile on his face. "I always warned him they would try and take him, but he never listened. A man like Stephen Strange forgets that he can still be manipulated."

Silence settled between them, one that made James uncomfortable. "So, can you fix it? My memory?" To his dismay, Xavier shook his head. "But you said you had the ability to do this kind of thing – surely that means you can undo it too?"

"I could," he agreed. "If I did, however, then I risk the possibility of others recognising my work on you, and thus realising that I'm still alive."

"I wouldn't tell anyone," he insisted, and Xavier laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't, James – not of your own volition, anyway." His smile wasn't as sad as it had been a few minutes ago, but it still wasn't one hundred per-cent happy either. "Listen, I know a man who can help you just as well as I could. He lives a little way from Cenaria City, and is a doctor of sorts. Find him, and he can help you." Some directions were scribbled down and passed over, and after a firm handshake, Xavier wished him well.

"Can I ask you something?" James said before stepping out of the cave's mouth.

"Of course."

"Why live all the way out here? You said you're letting people think you're dead, but there are loads of better places to be than a cave on a mountain. You could go to Ymmur, Alitaera, Gandu, Ladesh – why so far from civilisation?"

There was a twinkle in Xavier's eyes. "The further I am from civilisation the fewer people know about me, and therefore the safer all those places are." At James' look of confusion, he elaborated. "I am under no disillusions – Khalidor would use someone like me the same way they have used Stephen Strange, if not for worse. If they cannot find me, then they cannot use me to harm others."

"But it's dangerous up here, even for magi!"

"Your concern is touching, James, but I can take care of myself, and have done for many, many years," he assured him with a chuckle. "Besides," he added, "I've heard the whispers of the winds, and they say a great change is going to befall the southern lands. Better to be out of civilisation until this unrest is all blown over." James was desperate to ask him what he meant, and it must have shown; "Understand your past before you try to understand the future, James."

James looked him over once more, this clearly powerful mage who'd isolated himself for the safety of millions of clueless people, then stepped away from the shadows of the cave and went looking for more answers.


	2. A Small Price

When Winter Strikes

**2. A Small Price**

The Plith River wasn't hard to miss. Beginning in the border mountains it meandered south-west for some time until it grew out into the sea, and just before that moment it ran through Cenaria City. Xavier's instructions told James to follow the river in this direction, then to go east just before reaching the city, and he predicted that it should take him a few days at most.

Whoever had ordered the censorship of his memories had decided to leave in the survival skills he'd been taught at some point in his life. Though he had nothing but a few hand weapons and clothes on his person, he was able to fashion spears to catch fish, find remotely safe spots in the trees to sleep, and knew how to avoid becoming a meal for some of the bigger predators that he encountered on his trek. When it was just him on his own, though, James looked back through what little memories he had and tried to piece them together to find an answer.

He remembered the attack in which he lost his arm, as well as the aftermath. He'd come to in what he believed to be some sort of torture chamber, arm replaced by a metal look-alike that moved exactly how he wanted it to. At first he thought he was hallucinating – then the Vurdmeisters had walked in with that mage Xavier had called Stephen Strange and explained things for him. There was barely any time to come to terms with what had occurred before they were pushing him into training: teaching him herbology, weapon skills, how to gather intelligence, how to stay hidden, how to fight, how to adjust to the new balance of his metal arm, how to use it to deflect spells, how to kill with it. He could remember the physical exhaustion of each day, not to mention the fear of displeasing the Meisters he had to mask whenever they laid eyes on him… But once it was all over, once they deemed him ready, they'd given him a name and an order.

That was where things became disjointed; James remembered the contracts being handed to him, even occasionally remembered travelling to whatever land that target lived in, but he couldn't ever recall the actual kill, nor the aftermath. He had flashes of Stephen Strange standing over him, anxiety drawn all over his face as he worked a spell that put James to sleep. Then, he would be woken, he'd get a new name, he'd go out, he'd return, and he'd be put to sleep, and this process would repeat itself several times, he was sure. Between waking, receiving contracts and going to sleep though, James' early life was mostly blank.

After five days of travelling (and worrying over the holes in his mind), James eventually diverted himself east, joining a thin, worn path that soon took him onto a larger one. Xavier's instructions said the cottage he was looking for wasn't too far from the city, roughly an hour or so. Sure enough, he came across a small abode after an hour and a quarter, and with some trepidation (that was odd – the Meisters had cleared out any chance of hesitation, hadn't they?) he knocked on the wooden door.

The woman who answered had long, wavy brown hair that tumbled down behind her shoulders. She was shorter than him, naturally slim, and had bright, questioning eyes that he felt a little uncomfortable looking into. Nevertheless, she seemed fairly welcoming as she smiled and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I'm looking for Dr. Banner?"

"Which one?" He blinked, and her smile widened. "There are two of us," she explained. "Do you mean me or my husband?"

"Your husband. I think," he answered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. The woman invited him in, introducing herself as Elizabeth Banner before sticking her head through a doorway.

"Bruce? There's someone who wants to see you."

The man who followed her out wasn't what James had been expecting; his assumption was that someone who could work memory magic like Xavier and Strange would appear similar to them – Bruce Banner, however, was very different. Only a little taller than his wife, he had a weary, ragged look about him, from his tunic and pants to the tired smile he gave James by way of greeting. Judging by the humble accommodation, James guessed he was keeping on the low like Xavier, but obviously hadn't heard the same wind-whispers.

"My name is James," he began after he'd been offered a seat. "I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"In what way?"

"There are some… weaves I'd like removing. From my head. I was told that you're pretty good when it comes to those kinds of things."

Bruce gave a small smile. "Depends on the weaves."

"Memory alterations."

The smile disappeared. "Someone's altered your memory?" he asked. "How can you be sure?"

"Someone else spotted them." He intended to keep true to his word and keep Xavier's whereabouts secret, but the way the doctor scrutinised him he could tell he was already under suspicion.

"Who?"

"I can't say."

Bruce watched him a moment more before nodding grimly and gesturing through to another room set up with a table in the middle. "Sorry about the lack of comfort," he said wryly.

"Been in worse places."

"Do you mind me asking where you've come from?" Bruce asked as he began his initial examination.

"The mountains," James said without thinking twice. "At least, that's where I woke up. I was wandering around for a while before I got to the city, and someone directed me here."

There was a hum from just outside his vision (and his training made him stiffen at the vulnerable position he was in) before Bruce called out softly to the other room. "Betty? What do you make of this?"

He heard Betty come in and stand beside Bruce, felt her breath on his hair as she leaned in to examine the weaves on his head. "My God," she murmured.

"Can you see any traps?"

"Not any obvious ones," she said after a pause. "Why? You're not going to…" Two pairs of footsteps disappeared off to his right, and all James heard after that was hushed muttering and frantic whispering. Whatever Betty thought Bruce was going to do to him she seemed to disagree with it, and that made James nervous. He had no doubt that Xavier wouldn't have sent him here if he didn't think Bruce could help him, but what if Bruce couldn't? Or what if the results left him damaged? The word 'traps' hadn't given him much comfort, and the thought of his head exploding because of an unseen tripwire wasn't pleasant.

After some time the Banners returned, coming to stand in his line of sight, faces heavy. They were both now wearing glasses, making them look much more doctor-like in James' opinion. "Okay James," Bruce began gently, "we've had a look at what's been done to you, and to be honest it's very complicated stuff. Whoever did this to you hasn't actually removed the memories, just repressed them rather forcefully, and, as you probably already know, multiple times." He paused to take a breath. "The good news is that we can't identify any traps or tripwires that might cause further damage, and we're confident that we can restore your memories for you without much difficulty."

"Well that's great!" James said – then saw the doctor's face. "Is there bad news?"

Bruce nodded apologetically. "With the amount of memories you've lost, and looking at the nature of the weaves, each memory you regain will probably hurt."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hurt?"

"Physically, yes, possibly emotionally too, although that depends on certain… personal things."

"It won't necessarily be instantaneous either," Betty added. "The longer a memory has been pushed out of the mind, the longer it will take to move back in."

James let their words sink in, realising they were offering him a choice. "There's something else you can do."

"We can remove the memories completely," Bruce said. "It will be considerably less painful for you, but the downside is that you won't recall anything that you don't already know."

He shook his head. "No. I want to remember."

Nodding once, Bruce shared a look with Betty, who proceeded to tie her hair up as her husband moved into position. "This will take some time," he explained from above James' head. "Betty's going to help me keep an eye out for anything that could cause further damage, particularly with the older blocks, but I'm fairly sure the procedure should run smoothly."

"How long are we looking at?"

He let out a slow breath. "With the depth and complexity of these spells, I'd have to say a few hours."

James huffed out a laugh. "Great. I'd ask for something for the, uh, pain, but I doubt there's a cure for memory pains, right?"

Betty stepped into his line of vision, a folded piece of cloth in her hand. "This will help you relax," she said. "Would you like some? It's just an inhalant."

He eyed the cloth warily. The last few times people had put him to sleep resulted in him losing at least one year of his life, maybe even more. "What does it – ah!"

"Sorry," Bruce said. "That was just me removing the most recent one. Do you remember anything?"

The image of Count Richards bleeding out from a slit throat, his wife screaming beside him, was taking a long time in fading. He nodded. "Yeah." To Betty, he asked, "Can you keep that stuff nearby?"

The Banners worked slowly but steadily on the tangles surrounding his brain, picking apart each block as if they were untangling a spider's web. The memories came at him irregularly, sometimes not quite in chronological order, and just as Bruce had predicted each one was accompanied with a certain amount of discomfort. At first, James could handle it; the recent reminders of assassinations gone well merely felt like a gradually building headache, and even if the images were unpleasant (people with slit throats, wide eyes, bruised and broken skin, unnaturally angled bones) he could deal with them. It was after an hour that he started to eye the inhalant that Betty had placed on a side counter.

The more the Banners unpicked the more horrified James became with himself. He had been ruthless – the Meisters had told him to make his target suffer however he deemed appropriate, and he seemed to have taken that to mean mentally as well as physically. He'd made men watch as he defiled their wives in front of them, played week-long games of ghost with small families before killing them one by one, even stooped as low as torturing children to get a response from their parents. The more he remembered, the more guilt he began to feel, and the more the memories hurt; what had started as an uncomfortable but manageable headache developed into a blunt, unrelenting pressure on his skull, and he wondered if Bruce had tripped a spell that was crushing his head without realising.

After another hour he caved and practically begged Betty for the inhalant. She obliged, pressing it over his nose and mouth and wiping at the sweat on his brow gently. The relief came quickly, the pain receding a little as he sank into blissful unconsciousness, not even worried about what two magi could do to him while he was unable to defend himself.

* * *

_He stared at the sign in front of him, tracing the outline with his fingers reverently. It was a crude drawing but easily recognisable: a wolf, head thrown back as if it was howling, above two crossed swords. His clan symbol. They'd gained new territory recently, pushing back those bullies from the Hydra clan further towards the river. Chester Phillips said they were going to freeze this winter because of how far back they'd gone. He hoped he was right._

_"Are ya sure 'bout this?" he asked the scrawny boy next to him._

_The pale, split-lipped face was a stark contrast to the burning blue of his eyes. He nodded. "Yeah. I'm tired of being picked on by my old clan. You're the first person who's ever stood up for me."_

_The nine-year old scoffed. "I already told ya – I hate bullies. And no 'fence, but ya looked like ya could use a hand."_

_"I had him on the ropes!"_

_He smirked. "Course ya did. C'mon – Chester's place is this way."_

_The boy looked anxious as they set off together. "Are you sure he'll let me join?"_

_Throwing an arm round his bony shoulders, he grinned. "Sure he will! And if he doesn't at first, I'll persuade him."_

_His new friend smiled as much as the split lip would allow him. "You mean it?"_

_"I mean it."_

_"Thanks, Bucky."_

* * *

This was the first time James had woken up with more or less all of his memories in place. At first he was bombarded with a few, sharp flickers of targets and casualties that came with their own flare of pain and guilt, but once the onslaught subsided he saw that Betty was at his side, a hand on his shoulder as she tried to get him to focus on her. "It's alright James – you're here, you're fine. The procedure's over now."

Getting his bearings James slumped back on the work surface, feeling no less tired for the extended nap he'd just had. "How long have I been out?" he grated.

"Six hours," she told him, passing over a cup of water. As he drank he felt her fingers run over the seam of his metal arm, taking in the different sensations of skin and metal. "This is… quite remarkable."

Having drained the cup he let her take it before wondering what they'd done with his shirt. "Same guys who fucked with my memory," he said bluntly. Sitting up experimentally he deemed himself able to walk without keeling over, and swung his legs over the edge of the table. "How much do I owe you?"

Betty's smile was genuine as she shook her head. "Bruce and I were glad to help. Payment's not an issue."

"Seriously?" She nodded. "Then thanks, I guess. I mean, if there was a better way for me to say it I would, but…"

"That's fine – I understand," she chuckled.

"Is Bruce…?"

"He's sleeping. It was another three hours before we finished, and it's been a long time since he worked so hard on something so difficult."

"Right. You'll pass on my gratitude?"

"Of course."

Grabbing his shirt from the side, James nodded. "Well, I guess I'll get out of –" The Sethi fire mage, John Storm, was throwing a fireball at him, blood trickling from a gash in his face. In his memory James leapt sideways out of its path – in reality, he was left gasping for breath and clutching the work surface for support, Betty's hand on his arm.

"You may experience a few sudden lapses," she was explaining, "particularly during and after sleep. As time passes they'll become less frequent, but it's like we said earlier: the older the memory, the more severe the sensations that accompany it."

Still shaken, James nodded slowly, blinking away the lingering images of fire. When he was stable again, he pulled on his shirt and left, only accepting the food Betty gave to him because he didn't want to worry her further. Once he was back on the road though, he felt lost; he ended up ambling towards Cenaria City, a loose plan forming in his mind with each step he took. There was bound to be a multitude of jobs available – he'd find one that sounded appealing, hopefully with good pay, then see about setting up a small business or something, anything to keep him occupied and working. Perhaps it was an old, forced-upon habit, but James hated being restless, and now that he was in full knowledge of just what he'd done in his past he needed something to take his mind away from that, even if just for a few hours a day.


	3. Straight in the Eye

When Winter Strikes

**3. Straight in the Eye**

The first few weeks of James' new life in his 'home' city were difficult to say the least. Finding lodgings was nearly impossible: his arm scared most people, and he didn't have money for inns or hostels, so he resorted to sleeping in stables and workshops, waking up as early as possible so he could sneak out before being caught. For food and money he either stole and pickpocket or answered menial exchange ads: manual labour for food and lodgings, a week's work with pay, etc. As soon as he had enough for new clothes he bought a longer-sleeved tunic and gloves, concealing the ever-shining metal of his false arm and making it easier for him to find jobs.

Over the course of several weeks he got himself involved in a variety of projects, from temporary farmhand to construction work, but never once did he answer the call for a mercenary. He knew how skilled he was at killing already. It was not a road he particularly wanted to re-visit any time soon, not if he could have a choice about it, and he currently seemed to spend enough time killing people in his memories anyway. Just as Betty had warned, the memory bombardment continued. Not one night passed where he didn't recover at least one new detail about a contract that had been repressed, a target closed off to him, a slaughter pushed into his mind's recesses. On particularly bad nights, it was hard to leave whatever corner he'd fallen asleep in once he'd woken. If they didn't leave him in some degree of discomfort, the memories choked him with guilt, and only the Khalidoran programming for survival made him seek out sustenance and income.

What still eluded him were his childhood memories. The Meisters told him that Cenaria City had been where he was born, so that made it his hometown, but he recognised very little of it. Many of the people he worked for told him not to venture east of the Plith, into what was known as the Warrens, and he never asked why; something in his gut told him the place was bad, and that was enough. The same people also inadvertently fed him information about the city's nobility, and he began to recognise some of the names that frequently cropped up: well-known families like the Odinsons and Carters, up-and-coming ones like the Rogers family, the fast disappearing Borson line – King Odin looked to be the last, and was yet to name an heir – and the families all looking to increase their standing, such as the Wilsons, the Prydes, the Murdocks, the Wagners, and many more. The gossip never seemed to last long, apart from the incident involving a Laufeyson and a Darkhölme.

"D'you 'ear 'bout the latest noble scandal?" a fellow construction worker asked him one day.

James shook his head. "Never do."

"Bloody typical," the man grumbled. "All the same up there. That Laufeyson or wha'ever 'is name is broke up with 'is missus, some Darkhölme lass. 'Ole family celebrated, 'parently. Can y'believe?"

"Unfortunately, I can."

"Gone off with some Lensherr kid now, she 'as. Can't see 'ow they're much diff'rent, t'be honest." The man grunted, swinging the hammer down particularly hard. "Tell ya, lad, y're better off down 'ere, with us common men. 'Ey – d'you know why we're called 'common'? Eh? 'Cause we got common sense, lad, that's why!"

Neither disagreeing nor agreeing, James just smiled and got on with his work, listening to the man moan and whine about nobility for the remainder of the job. It was a relief to get away with him, but their conversation also made James realise something: nearly everyone groused and complained about the triviality of the nobles, but at the mention of the under-city rulers conversation could be expected to make a sudden and sharp detour. It left James curious – nobody really told him much about the Sa'kagé, except that they were dark, cold, and very efficient at getting what they wanted. Some individuals were brave enough to speculate that the Sa'kagé actually controlled the city, not King Odin, but others claimed that they were working under his nose. Either way, the general consensus was that Sa'kagé folk were not the kind you crossed.

After weeks of earning minimum pay and scraping by on irregular 'meals', James finally saw an ad that, for the money they were offering, seemed manageable: it was an archery contest to be held in a couple of weeks in the city centre, and the prize money was a figure James only remembered seeing on trade bills he'd stolen on missions. With that kind of money under his name, he'd easily be able to pay rent for lodgings – hell, maybe even buy a small place for himself. He made a note of the date and bought a bow set for training; not that he needed it much, but he wanted to make sure his skills hadn't dulled. Ignoring each remembered face that flashed in place of the makeshift targets he set up, he practised long and hard in the hopes that he might get a decent night's sleep before the contest. If anything, excitement made him sleep less.

When at last the day of the contest dawned, James took himself to the contestants' chambers at the edge of the stadium for examination. The maja in charge introduced herself as Sister Virginia Potts, a pretty red-head with a very professional manner, and she explained the rules.

"Competitors are placed into brackets at random, then it's a straight shoot-out: five arrows each, best of three, highest score goes through to the next round. Standard scoring applies and there is a judge. What he says goes, so don't contest anything he says too much or he may disqualify you."

"Charming," James muttered as Sister Potts came to his left arm. He'd worn the long-sleeved tunic he'd bought, hoping the sleeves would cover the weaves as well as the metal, but apparently not.

"What's this?" He opened his mouth to try and explain, but decided the easiest option was to just roll up his sleeve – so that was what he did. The Sister's eyes widened. "Goodness," she said. "That I was not expecting."

A slight panic began to crawl its way up the back of James' neck. "It's not gonna get me into trouble is it?" he asked. "I mean, it's not special or anything – I don't even use it to draw."

Sister Potts frowned at the weaves for a couple of minutes, fingers skimming over the metal limb as if brushing dust away. "I don't see anything immediately wrong with it," she said at last, "but you might want to keep it covered, lest the judge decides differently." Stepping away from him, she picked up a large sheet of parchment, unrolling it to reveal a list of competitors and the brackets they'd been placed in. "Your examination's complete," she said. "All I need now is your name, then you're free to go."

"James," he told her. Hand hovering over the page, she looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"That's very understated for a stage name."

Oh. James frowned; the last 'stage name' he'd had was not one that would go down well with a Cenarian crowd – hell, anybody who kept up to date with killings and murders would go into a frenzy on the spot at those words. So he thought for a minute, eventually allowing himself a slightly cocky smile as he told the Sister: "Bullseye." The way she rolled her eyes told him that she was used to cock-sure attitudes, but 'Bullseye' was added to the roster anyway.

"Wait, there's just one more thing," Sister Potts called as he was halfway out the door. "Just to let you know, there are Talent Spotters present in the stadium tonight. Any sign of you using your Talent and you'll be disqualified instantly."

He nodded. "Thanks, but I'm not Talented."

She frowned, surprising him by saying, "Yes you are – you're immensely Talented."

"I am?" Talent, he knew, was a form of magic present in most people to varying degrees. He had no idea if he was Talented or not, but because the Meisters had never taught him to use it he assumed he wasn't. Sister Potts was suggesting the opposite.

She nodded, brow still drawn in confusion. "How could you not know?"

Sensing the conversation would curve to bring in his past (the one part of his memories still to be recovered) James left before she could say anything else. He guessed his confusion would convince Sister Potts that he wasn't going to pull any Talent-related stunts during his rounds, but her disbelief at his ignorance unsettled him. Why hadn't the Meisters groomed him to use his Talent? There was no way they could have been as oblivious as he was, so there were only two possibilities remaining: one, they had taught him how to use it and he'd forgotten; two, they'd been scared by the size of his Talent, and had kept it secret from him. He was willing to bet on the most likely truth being the latter.

As much as he wanted to think this new revelation over, there wasn't much time. The contest had begun as soon as he reached the stands, and his attention was devoted to scoping out his opponents. Their display of skill was underwhelming, and their scores matched the feeling. The audience clapped after each man or woman emptied their five arrows into the target, but they only properly reacted if the score was above one hundred. A couple of individuals looked interesting, but one character was clearly in a class of his own – the commentator named him Hawkeye, and each arrow he loosed landed centimetres from his target's centre.

"So that's their boy," James heard one man murmur behind him as Hawkeye left the stadium.

"You mean…?" another voice asked in a low tone.

The first man scoffed. "Come on – did you really think the Sa'kagé would pass up an opportunity to remind us all who's in charge?"

"Shh!" his friend hissed. "They could kill you for that!"

"Let them," the first grunted. "Can't see why they would, though. Just a waste of their time."

Their words still rang in his ears as James made his way down to take up his place in the stadium. Hawkeye was a Sa'kagé agent. That explained a few things, and made something inside him curl in anger. There were some people in this contest (himself included) who needed that money, and from what he knew of the Sa'kagé, money was not a problem for them. They were effectively robbing the people.

When at last he had a bow in his hands James used his anger to great effect. His final scores came out as good as Hawkeye's, and the crowd were much more receptive to him than the first. He left the stadium in a better mood than when he'd entered, but the first person he ran into flipped him back into the darker feelings too soon.

"Nice shooting." Hawkeye was stood with an easy grin on his face, hands crossed as he leant on the tip of his bow. "Military?"

James glowered at him. "Old hobby."

"Huh. You're pretty good for a hobbyist."

"What does that make you? An assassin?" If he had to admit it to himself, this Hawkeye guy was the last person James would mark as a killer for hire. Roughly a similar height to him he was leanly toned, with more muscle in his upper arms, had dirty blonde hair and cool, blue-grey eyes that watched him sharply. The way he grinned at James' comment threw him off a little, too. Maybe the men he'd overheard had been wrong…

"Assassin's ain't got nothing on me," Hawkeye said, a wicked glint in his eyes. "I'm the best shot in this city, and they know it."

The guy was cocky. James could match that. "Yeah? Well I guess I'll need extra convincing when we go head to head."

Hawkeye laughed. "Dude, I really hope we do!"

'Dude'. Huh. James couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anybody call anyone 'dude' – but the address was distantly familiar… Worried about dragging up more demons from his past he turned his back on the supposed Sa'kagé archer.

The rest of the contest passed by in a blur. James became adamant that he'd wipe the grin off Hawkeye's face, and used each round as practise for the final. There was no doubt it would be him and Hawkeye – the rest of the competition couldn't even come close to their scores, and everyone in the stadium knew it. It made him smile, though, to hear the audience rally behind him more so than Hawkeye. Perhaps they thought he was some kind of anti-Sa'kagé defiant, and as much as he didn't want to be seen as a poster boy for anything of the sort he realised he the crowd's support was a morale boost if nothing else. Perhaps it would even phase Hawkeye out a little.

Nope. When his first five arrows landed home in their usual areas, Hawkeye took the meagre applause as if they'd given him a standing ovation, not out of ignorance, but arrogance, James thought. In contrast, the way the crowd began chanting "Bullseye!" over and over when he stepped up was humbling. After he landed the same first score as Hawkeye, the noise was deafening.

"Just a hobby, huh?" the archer asked as James returned to the bench. He gave no more than a shrug in return, and sat back to wait until his next go.

All five of Hawkeye's arrows found the centre of the target. It took the crowd a moment to process the score the judge related to them, after which a slow, reluctant applause started up. This gave way to a deafening roar when James stepped up to the plate (ignoring a wink from Hawkeye as they passed one another), and he suddenly felt as if he was shooting not just for him, but for them too, against all the injustice the Sa'kagé had ever wrought from the shadows of the city. As soon as the judge had silenced them, he steadied his breathing, nocked his first arrow, and drew it back.

Five minutes later he was watching Hawkeye receive the golden arrow trophy someone had fashioned, trying not to let the false smile on his face slip. The crowd loved him, were upset to see him lose, but he didn't want to be a role model for bad losing. He shook Hawkeye's hand, raised the other in farewell to the crowd as he disappeared, then kicked an empty barrel over in the competitors' tent to vent his frustration. Sitting down and dropping his head into his hands, he realised his righteous anger was somewhat ironic – hadn't he done worse as Khalidor's puppet, killing people and their families just because a Vurdmeister claimed the Godking didn't like them? Because it wasn't just people outside of Khalidor he'd been sent to kill. The more naïve would laugh if he told them treason existed in the Godking's realm, but that was only because he was the reason they'd never heard of it.

"Hey, you okay?"

Looking up, James found the last person he wanted to see stood before him. Without thinking, he lashed out, too enraged to feel disappointed when his fist just grazed the air in front of him. "Happy now, asshole?" he bit out.

Hawkeye frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Flaunted your skills and took the reward that was laid out for you all along!" he yelled. "This was all a set up!"

"Hey –"

"Didn't it occur to you that some of us may have needed that money to survive?"

To his confusion, Hawkeye scoffed. "Money? You think I did that for the money?" Before James could answer, he held up a hand. "Just so you know, there was no prize fund. It was just a ruse to get people to enter."

James felt his jaw go slack. Up until that moment, he hadn't really meant the words he'd thrown out, but now it made sense. "So… it really was a set up? You weren't even playing your best…"

"And it nearly killed me, but if I'd hit perfect every time people would've started calling me out."

"Then why?" he demanded. "Why give people false hope if they don't have a chance?"

"For entertainment." Hawkeye gestured to the outside of the tent, where the hum of gossip was still prominent. "Those people wanted a show, and we gave it to them. If it was a little tailored from the beginning, who cares? They had a good time. They got their money's worth."

James faltered. It all seemed very un-Sa'kagé-like, yet at the same time it reeked of the under-city organisation. "So, what would've happened if I had won?" he asked eventually, letting the tiniest of smirks pull at the corner of his mouth.

Hawkeye barked out a laugh. "I'd have been made to clean out the slave pits for a year!" He must have been exaggerating, but then where the Sa'kagé were concerned, anything was possible. "Hey, I just wanted to say though: you were pretty good out there. Best opponent I've faced in a while."

"Cheers," James muttered.

"No, seriously, I had to actually start being bothered just to beat you!" That was… comforting. "Look, you're new around here, right? No offence or nothing, but you look like you could use some help."

He snorted. "Do I?"

"Afraid so. But I know someone who could offer you that help."

"I don't want to work for the Sa'kagé."

"Didn't say you would be."

"But not denying it either."

Hawkeye's lips twitched, the only indication he was fighting off a smirk. "Everything I say next is true, and I'm only gonna say this once, so hear me out – it isn't often that people catch my eye the way you did. I can see you've got skill, and I can also see that, shooting contests aside, it's being wasted. Now my boss, he can help you put that skill to good use – hell, he'd be glad to – and in return he'll give you what you need: food, shelter, clothes, money, you name it. I know you've got your reservations, but at least come and meet him. I'd vouch for you, if that's any consolation."

James wanted to say no, but the word just sat on his tongue. He turned Hawkeye's words over in his mind, and couldn't deny that shooting had felt good – better than the strain of construction work, anyway. The promise of food and shelter was tempting too, as was the possibility of finding out a little more about the Sa'kagé. Finally, he sighed. "Not saying yes, but… I'll meet this boss of yours."

"Glad to hear it. I'll take you there now." James agreed, and Hawkeye stepped forward, hand extended. "It's Clint, by the way. Clint Barton."

"James." This time, the handshake was genuine.

* * *

Dusk was just settling down over the land when Bruce looked up from his stock list at the noise of surprise that came from Betty. "What is it?"

She held up the letter in her hands. "Pepper sent this today. Apparently she was doing the examinations for an archery contest and she came across an interesting character. Remember James?"

Bruce frowned. "The man with the memory weaves?"

"He had a metal arm." She tapped the paper. "Pepper says one of the competitors was not only astonishingly Talented, and just as oblivious to the fact, but also had a metal arm covered in protective weaves. It can't be a coincidence."

He agreed. "Does she say how he did?"

"Um… Second, apparently. Lost to the Sa'kagé."

"There's a surprise," he grunted.

Betty came over to his desk, a comforting hand on his shoulder. "At least it means they're not interested in us anymore."

"You mean me," he muttered, but gave her hand a squeeze. They each returned to their reading for a few minutes more before he had to give up, his mind distracted by the reminder of the memory spells. "Have you ever thought about those weaves?" he asked his wife.

"Which weaves?"

"Those memory ones." He rubbed his chin, staring out of the window. "I just can't think who would put them there. Jean and Charles are dead, Emma would never do something so malicious, so that only leaves Stephen, but…"

Betty frowned slightly. "Bruce, nobody knows where he is," she said softly.

"Then how did he know to find me?"

"Maybe he ran into Emma?"

He shook his head. "But would she make him hide that fact?" Betty couldn't answer. "James said he came from the mountains. Maybe –"

"Bruce, whatever you're planning –"

"If Stephen's out there I have to find him," he insisted. "I know – I know he likes to keep to himself, but disappearing off the grid isn't like him, Betty. I want to know… I have to know that he's okay."

"As well as why he did what he did to that poor man?" she asked quietly.

He sighed. "If it was him, then yes."

They regarded each other for a minute before Betty folded away Pepper's letter and stood up. "I'll make a start on the packing, then."

Bruce blinked at her. "What… Betty, you don't have to –"

"If you think I'm letting you journey towards Khalidor on your own, Bruce Banner, we may need to discuss our marital status," she called, disappearing into the back room. Despite himself, Bruce smiled fondly after her. He closed the stock book and pushed it to one side, pulling a map of Midcyru out from his drawers and unfurling it to plot a route.

* * *

It was past dusk by the time Clint returned to the house he'd left James in, apparently needing to go ahead and talk to his boss first. When they set off the streets were practically empty, save for a few homeless kids and street beggars hoping to catch a few more coins or supplies from late night traders, and not one of them, James noticed, dared to approach either him or Clint. He suspected they knew Clint was Sa'kagé, or at least that he was a damn good shot with a bow and arrow. In fact, the archer still had his equipment strung on his back, the dark wood of the bow barely visible in the dimming light.

"Specially-reinforced ebony," Clint said as they walked. "It retains its strength but the spells make it a little more flexible. Lighter too, but just so that it doesn't sink."

"When would it sink?"

"That's what I said, but they don't want to take the chance that I'll drop it into water or something." He scoffed. "Like I'd ever drop a bow!"

They walked to the edge of the city, and James got his first proper look at the Warrens before nightfall; there wasn't much to see, even with the last rays of sun still lingering overhead, but it was obvious the place was still active. Clint noticed him watching, and came to stand next to him.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you to keep out of there," he said. "Especially at night. Guild rats'll do anything to get money off you, and when they're not picking your pockets they're at each other's throats."

James swallowed and turned away. The place made him uncomfortable. "How far away are we from your boss?"

Clint sighed. "Yeah, about that…" He held up a black strip of cloth that he'd pulled out from somewhere, mildly apologetic.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Hey, if we let everyone know where we were based we'd be flushed out before you can say 'homicide'. It's not for long, I swear."

Wanting this over sooner rather than later James relented and submitted himself to the blindfold. After that he felt Clint lead him through a myriad of twists and turns (and he lost count despite his best efforts) until eventually he registered that they were underground. Oddly, the terrain he was walking on smoothened out, and judging by the feel of the air he thought that he still probably wouldn't be able to see if Clint took the blindfold off. Suddenly though, he heard another voice. "Barton."

"Sitwell." He was jerked to a halt.

"This him?"

"Yep. Don't bother, he's unarmed."

"Rules are rules, Barton." Without any warning a pair of hands started to feel up and down James' body, and only the weight of Clint's on his shoulder kept him from jumping backwards. It was over in a few silent seconds.

"Really Jasper?" Clint said, a pleading note in his voice.

"Hand it over, Barton."

The weight on his shoulder disappeared, and the sound of Clint grumbling was all he could hear. "You take good care of her, you hear?"

"You'll get it back after you leave, Barton," the man named Sitwell said. "Now arms up."

"Just be careful where you put those hands, Sitwell, or you might find something else going up."

"If it did, I'd cut it off." Clint laughed loudly, but James got the impression Sitwell wasn't so amused. "Alright, go on."

A door opened in front of him, and James allowed himself to be pushed through. The floor beneath him was smooth, and the echo of their footsteps gave him the impression of a large room. They must have been deeper underground than he first thought, but it wasn't until Clint untied the blindfold that he really understood where he was. Not gawping at the massive, seemingly ceiling-less space was impossible, and James assumed that was the desired effect. The whole place was made out of black fire-glass, adding to its oppressive feel, and the only furniture in sight was ten chairs before him on a slight platform. Three of those chairs were filled: two on the bottom row, and the one elevated above the others.

It was the man in this chair who spoke first, fixing one eye on Clint with a little disinterest. "Wait outside," was all he said, but Clint obeyed wordlessly. James watched him go, slightly wishing he hadn't been dismissed, and then it was just him and the three Sa'kagé VIPs. The one-eyed man in the raised seat stared at him, but didn't appear to have anything to say. The centre seat directly below him was empty, but the chairs either side of it were occupied: to his right was a well-dressed man with a blank expression and wise-looking eyes, and in the other was a young woman with sharp, critical features, hair pulled back into a bun. It was her who addressed him first.

"What's your name?"

"James, ma'am." Sa'kagé or not, it was wise to treat authority with respect.

"Where are you from?"

"Cenaria."

"Really?" This time it was the man who spoke, and before James could answer his question he was speaking again; "We've been entering Barton into that competition for years and you've only shown up the once, and if your skill level is as high as he says it is then that means you've managed to stay under our radar for almost all your life, which is impossible. Aside from that you have an impressive array of protective weaves over your left arm, the likes of which indicate it is not made of flesh but metal, and I know of only one place where such a craft has been attempted." He paused to blink. "That, and it's a giveaway of your identity as the Winter Soldier."

James froze. He saw the woman's eyes widen a little, noticed the one-eyed man above lean forward. The name obviously meant a lot to them, and he could understand why. The Khalidorans had bestowed it upon him so that it might 'make his targets' blood run cold'. Suddenly regretting his decision to come here, he waited.

"I'll ask again," the woman said, a new edge to her tone. "Where are you from?"

He dry swallowed. "Khalidor."

"What are you doing in Cenaria?"

"Trying to start over." Nobody said anything, so he continued. "I don't know what happened, but I… had a breakdown after a mission. I ended up wandering into Cenaria when my memories started coming back – memories of people I'd killed on order, of the Meisters training me, putting me to sleep, waking me up when they needed me. I felt – I feel guilty, so I've turned my back on them." He held up his hands. "I don't want any trouble here. Clint said you would offer me a life in return for my services, so I said I'd hear you out. That's all, I swear."

She opened her mouth to say something but it was the man at the top who spoke next. "What kind of things did Barton say I'd give you?"

"Uh, just the basics: food and shelter, possibly some money."

"And why would I give you that?"

Being honest, James shrugged. "I don't know. All I've heard of the Sa'kagé is that you guys hold a pretty tight leash on the city, and whenever someone disappears people blame you. Clint seems to think you'd find my skills useful."

"Would I?"

"For killing, yes. But I don't want to kill. Not anymore."

"Even if that's all you're good for?"

Under the piercing eye, he swallowed again. "There are other things I can do, but I won't kill. I've done enough of that already."

The three of them continued to stare at him, and just when his skin began to crawl the one in charge spoke again. "What would it take to get you to kill again?"

Against the fear running through his veins James let out a bitter laugh. "Honestly? You'd have to wipe my memory as far back as my training. And if you think I'm letting you anywhere near my head, you'd better fucking think again."

"How dare you –"

"Hill! That's enough." The woman – Hill – backed down, but her glare didn't ease up, and James hoped he hadn't made an enemy. Turning to his right, the one-eyed man nodded.

"We understand why you'd be uneasy about killing again," the 'wise' man said calmly. "But really, that's the only skill you have that we're interested in. Barton has spoken highly of you, and normally his hunches are right, so we aren't going to rescind our offer."

"What offer?"

"We can, as you were told, give you the basics for a good life, perhaps better than what you expect. In return, you'll become –"

"An attack dog."

"A contract killer, amongst other things."

Feeling a little bolder, James shook his head. "I already told you, I don't kill anymore. Now look, I did as Clint asked and I heard you out, and tempting as your offer is it's still a no. So I'd like to go now. Please."

The two below looked up to the man at the top, and after a long pause he gave a slow nod. James kept his head up and his pace measured as he left, feeling five eyes needle into his back as he walked towards the double doors. "If you change your mind," he heard One-Eye call out, "get in touch with Barton again. He'll bring you back." He didn't acknowledge the suggestion, just kept walking until he was out of that fear-inspiring place.

* * *

Natasha Romanov watched with interest as the Winter Soldier refused to accept Fury's offer. He wasn't at all like she remembered him, she noted, and said as much once she'd been called forward.

"How so?"

Turning to look at Coulson, she pursed her lips. "Hard to say. He seems to care more, obviously, but the man I met had no problem with killing." At a gesture from Fury, she elaborated. "He never told me exactly how many people he'd killed before our target, but I got the impression that whatever his number, it wasn't restricted to just men. Or women, for that matter."

Hill raised an eyebrow. "Children?"

"I wouldn't have put it past him."

"So you believe his story?" Coulson asked.

"I do."

"Hill?" Fury said. "You have something to add?"

"He clearly doesn't want anything to do with us, sir," she said. "If he's truly that set against killing then there's nothing short of altering his memory that will get him on our side."

"And he seemed very adamant that that wasn't going to happen," Coulson added.

Stroking his chin, Fury asked out loud, "Anyone we can call in for that?"

"Emma Frost is still in Ceura, but it's unlikely she'd co-operate."

"The Banners disappeared earlier this evening," Natasha said. "They've gone looking for Stephen Strange."

Sitting back, the Shinga laced his fingers under his nose and thought for a minute. "Let them be for now then," he said, "but make sure tabs are kept on the Banners. If they do find Strange, I want to know. And Romanov – convince the Winter Soldier that his skills can be used for good. Get Barton in on it if you need to, but no-one else."

"Yes sir."

Fury watched one of his best wetboys leave to go and do his bidding. He doubted she would disappoint him, in which case it was only a matter of time before the once-feared Winter Soldier was stood before them once more.


	4. Persuasion

When Winter Strikes

**4. Persuasion**

"Bobbi! 'Nother drink please!"

As soon as James had left the Nine's chamber, Clint had asked him how it went. When James, looking quite pale, told him he'd refused the offer, Clint couldn't deny that he'd been disappointed. Even so, as he'd led the blindfolded man back out into the city, he'd insisted on taking him somewhere where he could forget his troubles. James had laughed at that, but Clint knew the effect his higher-ups had on people, and this guy was a little different to normal people.

The look on James' face when he'd pulled off the blindfold in front of Lady Sif's brothel had been priceless. Clint had pushed him inside, regardless, and was soon drinking enough for both of them.

"I dunno why they still call it the Nine's chamber," he said as Bobbi slid him another glass. "I mean, it's kinda been a while since there were actually nine Nines, y'know?"

"Er, no, not really Clint." James was still only on his second drink. If Clint wasn't busy explaining things, he'd have ordered him another one by now.

"Well, the S'kagé used t'have a… 'council' of sorts: nine dudes who ran shit for the Shinga. They were called the Nine. Fury changed all that, though, s'now it's just Coulson 'nd Hill."

"Fury?"

"Yeah, y'know, scary-ass one-eyed guy. The Shinga."

"And he's the 'boss' you were on about?"

"Boss-man Shinga, whoo!" Clint raised his pitcher, sloshing some of his drink over the bar.

"Shit's sake, Clint, watch where you're waving that thing!" Bobbi scolded, coming over to wipe up the mess.

"Hey! Hey, Bobbi." Clint leant forward until he was sprawled out over the bar. Bobbi raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't you… Would, would you jus' gimme a second chance, Bobbi?"

"Clint, I've already said – no. Now stop asking."

"But I love you!" James snorted into his drink.

"No you don't. Now leave me alone, or do I have to throw you out?"

He sat bolt upright instantly. "No ma'am." If his eyes weren't half-closed, he could have been convincing.

Bobbi shook her head. "Jess is over there, I'm sure she'll give you a good time."

"Jess!" Clint stumbled off his stool, drink still in hand. "Jess!"

James laughed softly as he watched the archer stagger away, turning back as Bobbi groaned. "Two months I've been telling him 'no'," she complained, then smiled wryly at him. "You'd think he'd get the message by now." He chuckled, finishing his drink. "Can I get you another one sweetie?"

"Uh, not yet," he said. Alcohol, he'd discovered, was one way of asking for a memory-filled few hours, both before and after passing out.

"Well give us a shout when it takes your fancy."

"Thanks."

"You've been rather quiet this evening." Into the seat that Clint had just vacated slid the brothel's owner, Lady Sif. She was undeniably attractive, with high cheekbones and slanted eyebrows that made her gaze seem perpetually smouldering. Her jet black hair hung in a straight ponytail, shimmering in the low lighting of the lounge. She held herself regally, as if she really was a Lady, and every movement she made was graceful and with purpose – she was probably as powerful as she was beautiful. From what Clint had told him, if anybody was to know about something going on in the city, it would be Lady Sif.

As her words lapped over him James felt himself flush a little, eyes going anywhere but her fairly unconcealed… assets. "I didn't really plan on coming here," he admitted. "Clint sort of sprung it on me."

Lady Sif smiled in understanding. "Yes, that sounds like Clint. But look at it this way," she offered; "it means he likes you."

He laughed. "I gathered that much – he tried to get me to join… his group."

"Honey, I know all about Nicholas Fury and his underground games of chess."

"You… do?"

She nodded. "The Sa'kagé have been coming here since before Fury was born. My predecessor warned me about them, said they were nothing but trouble. I found, however, that men can easily be persuaded into simple deals, particularly when it benefits them both ways."

He worked out what she was saying. "You let them come here for free?"

"Not quite. The drinks they have to pay for."

James nodded as if that was normal, then raised his hand in Bobbi's direction. "But, surely that doesn't benefit you?"

"Oh, on the contrary," she laughed, eyes bright. "I offer them my girls' services as well as information gleaned from pillow talk, and in return, we have the Sa'kagé's full protection. That, and I can control what information gets taken to Fury directly."

"That's…"

"Double-crossing? Sneaky? Conniving?" Lady Sif shrugged delicately. "We do what we must to survive, love, and if that means keeping a few secrets for ourselves…" She leaned forward slowly until her lips were brushing the shell of his ear. "How many people, for example, do you think would like to see the Winter Soldier dead?" When she drew back, James looked stricken, and she laid a hand on the back of his neck. "Don't worry. Nobody here will say a thing. We pride ourselves on our confidentiality."

He managed a humourless huff. "How ironic."

She grinned at his tone and moved away, spreading her arms out on the bar behind her and leaning back with a sigh. After scanning the room for a few seconds, she spoke up again. "I think I know just the girl for you."

"Oh, no, thank you ma'am, but you really don't –"

"Darcy!"

"… have to," he finished lamely, watching as Lady Sif beckoned a young girl over. She had deep brown hair in loose curls, and wore a sky-blue, off-the-shoulder tunic with a short skirt and high boots. If she was wearing make-up, he couldn't tell, but every other girl he'd seen was so he assumed she must be too.

"James this is Darcy Lewis, one of our newer girls," Lady Sif said, laying a hand on the shoulder of the girl as she stopped next to them. "Darcy, this is James. It's his first time here and he's having some trouble relaxing. Would you be kind enough to help?"

"Sure," Darcy said, a bright smile on her face as she took James' metal hand – gloved, as it had been since the contest – and pulled him away from the bar.

Once she was sure James was on his way upstairs, Sif left her seat and made her way over to where Clint was sat with Jessica, blathering away as usual. She caught the girl's eye, tilting her head slightly, and waited as she left the wetboy with a lingering kiss. "Hello Clint," Sif said as she sat down beside him, resting an arm across his shoulders.

"Hi," he said, eyes clearly fixated on her breasts.

Rolling her eyes, she distracted him with the drink he'd left on the coffee table. "I was hoping you'd be able to answer a few questions for me sweetheart. Think you can manage that?"

Clint belched. "Sure."

"What did Nicholas Fury want with your friend James?"

"He didn't," the young man said, slumping against her slightly. "I took 'im."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Met 'im at the contest t'day. Damn good shot. Thought he'd be useful."

Interesting. "So he works for Fury now? He's a wetboy, like you?"

"Nah," Clint snorted. "Guy don't wanna know."

"And Fury hasn't killed him because…?"

"'Cause he still wants 'im. Almost as good as me. Useful."

So Fury hadn't managed to rope in the Winter Soldier? Sif silently applauded the resilient young man currently being tended to, but wondered if he'd be able to resist Fury for long. One more wetboy would only be beneficial to Cenaria in the long run, and the Winter Soldier probably knew more about Khalidor than their spies already there – the ones who were still alive, anyway. "Thank you, Clint," she murmured. "I'll see if there's a room available for you and Jessica."

* * *

When Clint had first come in with a new friend in tow, Darcy's interest had been piqued. She'd watched with amusement as Clint dragged him to the bar, immediately trying to win Bobbi's favour for what must be the hundredth time as his friend had tried to conceal his smiles. She'd tried to focus on the card game she was playing but there was no doubt that this new guy was serious eye-candy; so when Lady Sif had called her over to 'help him relax', she hadn't second guessed herself and taken him upstairs. Now, though, Darcy wasn't so sure what to do.

"Look Miss," he stammered as soon as she'd closed the door, "I appreciate… uh, the sentiment, but you don't need to do this."

Tilting her head at him, Darcy raised an eyebrow. "So then why did you come here?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Clint didn't give me much of a choice."

"Oh." That sounded like Clint alright. "Well, there are other ways you can relax, y'know."

He eyed her warily. "There are?"

"Sure. Like I noticed on the way up your hand felt really stiff. Want me to give you a massage? I mean, I'm not as good as someone like Bobbi or Wanda, but Bobbi's been giving me tips –"

"Thank you, Miss, but I don't think a massage would help," James said gently, cutting her off.

"That's the second time you've called me 'Miss'," she noted with a giggle.

"Should I stop?"

"Oh, no – I didn't mean it like that! I've just never been called Miss before and it's a little strange. But there's nothing wrong with it. I like it. Not in the kinky sexy way, but –"

"I understand." He was smiling now, like he had been back at the bar, and Darcy flushed a little at how childish she must have sounded.

"Right. Okay…" She cursed herself softly in her head. How was she going to help him relax if she couldn't relax herself? She needed to say something to ease the tension between them. "Why do you wear gloves?"

James blinked. "Pardon?"

"I noticed you were wearing gloves when you came in, but it's not exactly cold outside. And you haven't taken them off, but you've been here for quite a while. Does it have something to do with your hand feeling stiff?"

"Er… Sort of." He was rubbing his left hand self-consciously, and Darcy realised she'd probably gone a step too far.

"Ugh, I'm sorry!" she moaned, dropping onto the bed behind her. "I'm supposed to be helping you relax, but all I've done is stick my nose in where it doesn't belong!"

"It's alright," James said, moving to sit beside her. "Really. I'm sorry Lady Sif put you on the spot like that."

She snorted (very unladylike – Bobbi would despair). "Please. I was hardly 'put on the spot'. Anyway, you should've seen the guy I got saddled with last time. He was kinda fat, and he liked all these weird…" Beside her, James had gone a little pink, and she cringed. "Too much information – sorry."

He laughed a little. "That's okay. I'm sorry, too. It's been a while since I was… alone with a young girl in her bedroom."

Darcy's eyebrows shot up involuntarily. "Seriously?" He nodded, and she shifted on the bed to get a better look at his profile, tucking her legs up beneath her. "You don't look like a noble."

"Because I'm not."

"So why do you talk like one?"

"I do?"

She nodded. "You call people 'miss' and 'ma'am' and act all polite. But you look like you've got muscles, and a lot of nobles don't really have muscles unless they're in the King's army."

His lips stretched into a wry grin. "Maybe I am in the army."

"If you were in the army you wouldn't have met Clint."

"Wouldn't I, now?"

"Nope. Clint would get bored in the army. He doesn't take orders particularly well." James nodded in agreement. "But seriously," she continued, reaching forward to poke his arm. "There's no way you're a noble with arms like –" She stopped in her tracks as the flesh under her finger refused to give way. In fact, it felt about as stiff as his hand had.

James looked supremely uncomfortable. "I should go."

"Wait!" Darcy blurted as he stood up, instinctively reaching out to grab his wrist (a mistake on a number of levels – not only did he flinch, but it made her look a little desperate, and Darcy was anything but desperate). "It's okay," she said earnestly. "Whatever it is it doesn't matter – I've seen some bad things before, and I swear I won't tell Lady Sif –"

"Not like me you haven't," he said darkly, slipping free from her grasp as her fingers loosened. "And Lady Sif already knows." He had a haunted look on his face; it warped his handsome features into something sinister, something cruel, and Darcy had the urge to reach out and smooth them back into his charming, not-quite-nobility persona.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked quietly. "I mean, I'm not very good at giving advice, but I know how to listen. It's one of the first things we're taught…" He didn't need to know that. In fact she wouldn't have been surprised if he didn't believe her, the way she'd rambled on tonight.

After a long moment though, James resumed his spot next to her on the end of the bed, and wordlessly pulled off his left glove. "How much do you know about the – the Winter Soldier?"

A hand made of solid metal gleamed at her from the open end of his sleeve. It was almost unnaturally smooth, mirror-like in quality, but acted like a real human hand – she knew, she'd felt it. Silently asking his permission, she ran her fingers along the back of it, taking note of how cool it was to the touch as she answered his question. "Not much. I grew up hearing a few stories here and there, but they all basically said the same thing."

"Such as?"

She shrugged. "He was a killer. Didn't matter how old you were, whether you were boy or girl, peasant or noble, mage or soldier – if he wanted to kill you, he would." She felt a shudder under her fingers, and looking up at his face she saw he looked pained. Frowning, she was about to ask him why it mattered until she pieced a few things together. "Are you…"

"Was," he said with feeling. "Not anymore, but…" Without warning he pulled off his tunic, revealing the rest of his metal limb and letting Darcy see the multitude of scars, thick and long, that dotted his back and torso. "I have all these reminders," he said, a bitter smile accompanying his tone. "My… masters – they never let me be fully healed."

"Why?"

James shook his head, laughing once. "I really don't know," he said. "I mean, it's not like other people would see them, and they meant nothing to me the few times I saw them, so it's a good question." He looked at Darcy then for the first time, studying her face carefully. "Do they scare you?"

Thinking of the first time she'd seen Clint shirtless, she shook her head solemnly. "I've already told you – I've seen some pretty bad stuff."

Keeping their gazes locked for a while, James breathed out slowly. "Do you think," he began, "that's it's possible to go through life without hurting anyone? Even if that's all you've ever known?"

"No," she answered honestly, adding when he looked upset: "Some people deserve to get hurt."

"People like me."

"I don't wanna hurt you." He scoffed. She flicked his ear. "If I did want to hurt you, it would be like that – because I think you're being dumb."

"I'm the one being dumb?" he sneered.

"If you're trying to insult me, try harder," she told him pointedly. "You just told me that you used to be a killer. If you hadn't told me, I'd never have known, but now that I do you expect me to run away from you and your unusual physique?" He didn't answer, so she continued. "In case you hadn't noticed, and I'm sure Lady Sif already told you, the company we keep here isn't exactly holy, but believe me when I say that out of three nobles, one peasant and you, you're the most pleasant company I've had up here. In fact, most of the killers that come here are perfectly ordinary people. They just have a particular set of skills that they use for other people." Pausing to let that sink in, Darcy returned to her previous statement. "But it's like I said – some people deserve to get hurt anyway. I think there would be a lot more bad people in the world if someone didn't have the guts to kill them."

James had fallen silent again, but she could see him processing her words. "Hurting people is one thing," he said eventually, "but killing is wrong."

"Not if it's for a good cause," she suggested.

"Like what?"

"Um… Oh! The slave traders! They had to go." He agreed with her, she could see, but looked reluctant to endorse killing all the same. Taking a wild guess at why he was discussing this with her, she put forward an idea: "How about every time you hurt someone, and you don't think you did it with good reason, you find someone to talk to about it?"

"Someone like…?"

She shrugged. "You seem to be friendly with Clint. And he sort of does the whole killing thing too, so he might know what you've been through."

The idea struck a chord with him; something in his eyes lifted, and he nodded a little easier too. Once she saw that, Darcy did what she did best: rambled on about the small, insignificant things she noticed in life – things about the other girls he probably didn't need to know, her views on the city, outfits she'd been coerced into by Bobbi, some of the greasier nobles she'd seen, what little she knew about birds, and as time trickled by she saw that James was beginning to relax, changing back into that good-looking gentleman who had stood awkwardly in her room and declined her offer of sex. Neither of them knew how much time had passed, but that didn't stop her asking if he wanted to stay when he retrieved his tunic.

"Thanks, but I think I've bothered you enough tonight, Miss," he said with a wink.

Darcy giggled again. "I'd disagree and say it was the other way round."

"I can't allow that," he said, tugging on his glove. Before she could argue further he dropped into a shallow bow, saying: "Thank you for your counsel tonight, Miss Darcy. You've been very kind." With that, he let himself out, and Darcy was left grinning like a guild rat who'd just been given a fresh strip of beef.

* * *

After asking Clint for directions to the house they'd been in earlier (Clint, still drunk and half-asleep, had given him three) James was left to his own devices on the streets of Cenaria, and he found himself embracing the solitude. It had been a while since he'd been in contact with other people for such a long period of time, and while he'd mostly found it pleasant it was also a reminder that he was comfortable in his own mind. For the most part, anyway.

He hadn't meant to say all that he had to Darcy, but the way she had touched his arm – bare metal, not just through the cloth of his shirt, and not skimming over the top of it, either – without fear had given him a faint sort of hope. And when he'd asked about the morality of killing, he'd been serious. None of the kills he'd made for Khalidor had been for any other reason than the Godking's security, or to weaken other lands, strike them a demoralising blow. Darcy believed (maybe naïvely) that sometimes it was okay to kill; and perhaps she did have a point with the slavers, but she was just a brothel girl. Then again, her suggestion that he talk about –

James' thoughts were abruptly halted when his eyes finally registered something in the street ahead of him. He was walking down a small alleyway, with buildings on all sides, but ahead of him were two figures. As he drew closer he saw that the one on the ground was a large man, dark red stains blooming from multiple points on his shirt, and the figure stood above him was a young woman in a headscarf. Her dress was torn down the front, and in her hand she held a knife. She didn't look up as James called out to her, and when he got close she was visibly shaking.

"What happened?" he asked gently, trying to shake off the memories the scene was bringing up. "Hey, look at me." Carefully he took hold of her shoulders, turning her until the body was behind her and she had no way of seeing it without turning around. Tipping her chin up he asked again what had happened.

The young woman swallowed, letting out a shuddering breath. "I-I just… I was walking, and h-he… He would take 'no' as… as an answer, and he tried to…" Blinking, she finally made eye-contact with James. "Is he dead?"

He nodded. "Yes."

The woman gasped. "I killed him? But… but I didn't –" Dropping the knife she grabbed the front of James' tunic, looking up at him pleadingly. "I'm not a murderer! I swear, I've never killed anyone in my life, and I didn't mean to kill him! He just – I was –" And with that, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing hard into his chest.

At first, James had no idea what to do – it wasn't as if he'd ever been in this situation before. He tried to comfort her as best he could, stroking her back and rocking her slightly like he'd seen a mother do to a baby once (before he'd strung her up from the beams in her bedroom for her husband to find later), and it seemed to work. "It's alright now," he told her. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"You won't?" she sniffed, voice muffled against his good shoulder.

He shook his head, eyes landing on the bled-out man a few feet away. "He would have hurt you if you hadn't done what you did. And maybe if you hadn't stopped him, he'd do it again to another…" Innocent, his mind supplied. This mindless brute would have hurt another innocent girl, perhaps someone like Darcy – but now he couldn't.

As things began to make a little more sense to him, James offered to walk the woman home so that she wouldn't have anything to fear. She thanked him at her door and watched as he walked away, head bowed, in a different direction. Quietly slipping inside, Natasha Romanov allowed herself a small smile.

* * *

_Bucky tugged his new friend forward until they were both stood in front of Chester Phillips, the guild head of the Howling Commandos. Chester was the oldest guild head in the Warrens, and some members wondered why exactly he stayed on when he could easily buy his way out already. Bucky thought he knew; "It's 'cause he actually likes us."_

_"My old guild head left as soon as he could."_

_"Yeah? Well Chester won't do that to us."_

_He tried to imagine how the two of them looked now: him, who Chester didn't know particularly well, with a scrawny, unhealthy looking little who no guild in their right mind would take. Nevertheless, he was willing to put up a good fight._

_"What's your name?" Chester asked them both, and once Bucky had explained who they were and what they wanted: "What good would he do us? Even if he did live to be a big, he wouldn't be much of one."_

_"But he's tough, Chester!" Bucky insisted. "He was takin' on two bigs when I found him. Kept knockin' him down they did, but he kept gettin' back up."_

_"So?"_

_"I don't like bullies," the kid said, surprising Bucky by speaking up quite loudly for himself. "I'm not afraid of fighting them, whether they're bigger than me or not."_

_Chester looked him up and down. "How do I know you won't bring more of your guild here with you? You could be a spy."_

_"'Cause it was his own guild that was beatin' him up! C'mon, Chester!" Bucky pleaded. "They didn't want him! He's a good kid, ya gotta see that!"_

_"I don't want anything to do with my old guild anymore. I'd be loyal to the Howling Commandos, I swear."_

_The two of them waited, hearts pounding, as Chester talked to one of his bigs. After an excruciating few minutes, he eventually turned back to them with a sigh. "Alright kid, you're in, but he's your trouble, Bucky. He does anything tricky –"_

_"Don't sweat it, Chester! He'll be good as gold!"_

_"Thanks, Chester. I won't let you down, I promise!"_

_They left Chester's hut bursting with excitement, Bucky with an arm slung over the shoulders of the Howling Commandos' latest member. "C'mon, I'll take ya to meet my friends!" he declared. "They'll love ya, I know it!"_


	5. Know This

When Winter Strikes

**5. Know This**

Almost as soon as James had been presented once more to the Shinga and his 'council' to accept their offer of work, his training began – or, as Clint put it, "your fine-tuning sessions. Seeing as you already know how to kill." They put him up in one of the safe houses Fury owned in the city, close to the noble district, and he was woken in the morning after only a few hours of sleep by a woman knelt on his chest, a dagger at his throat.

"You're slower than I remember," was the first thing she said.

James raised an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to say something similar?"

Her lips twitched, but after a moment she released him. "Get dressed in these," she commanded, handing him a set of grey clothes similar to her own. "Then meet me by the river."

"The river?"

"If I see you on your way there, I will hurt you."

"What? Why? And who the hell –"

"The Shinga wants me to assess your abilities at stealth. Therefore, your task is to make it to the river without being seen. If you get seen on a contract, you could die, and you will have failed."

It all sounded horribly familiar. James swallowed back the memories and nodded, watching as the red-haired woman climbed wordlessly out of his window (hadn't that been locked?) and away into the early morning light. The clothes she'd given him fitted well, and were comfortable and unrestrictive; he assumed this was what wetboys generally wore, and the knowledge stilled him momentarily. He wasn't a Khalidoran tool anymore, but he still had that feeling of being controlled.

Shaking off his unease, he worked out a rough route to the river from his house and tried to stealth his way there as best he could. He kept to shadows and crowded areas, blending in to the travelling masses where he could and even hiding in a cart that was heading in the river's direction. Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder and thought maybe he saw a flash of red, but by the time he reached the side of the river the woman who had woken him up was already there with Clint. The two were stood on a bridge, casually looking up the body of water, and from where he was stood behind the corner of a tannery James worked out that they expected him to come from this way. So he doubled back, keeping the river on his right until he was sure he'd passed the bridge, then slowly made his way towards it once he'd come out on the river bank. He stayed close to the shadows the buildings provided, used a group of merchants for cover when he crossed the path until he found himself stood behind Clint and the red-head. They seemed oblivious. He could change that.

"Homunculus!"

"Shit!" Clint leapt in the air with fright before crouching low and turning, knife drawn, ready to face down the pit wyrm he was sure was coming. The red-head just watched him, eyebrow quirked in disbelief. When Clint realised there was no homunculus, and therefore no pit wyrm, he straightened up with a cough and slipped his knife away. "Yeah, very funny," he grumbled, glaring at James' smirk. He turned to the woman, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "You said he was coming from that way."

"I said he'd probably come from the North. That's not a definite."

"Gimme a break, Nat, my pride's wounded!"

She rolled her eyes, finally turning round to face James properly. "That wasn't bad," she said. "You did better than I thought, actually."

He gave a half-shrug. "Old training. Comes in handy sometimes."

Her responding twitch of the lips was familiar, and not because he'd seen her do it a few hours ago. "Natasha Romanov," she introduced herself, holding out a hand.

"The best female wetboy around," Clint added.

James nodded absently, hand still closed around Natasha's. "Sorry, have we met already? Before this morning, I mean."

"Perhaps." Her face gave nothing away, and he didn't pursue any further details.

What followed the stealth exercise was a general assessment of all his abilities: fighting styles, skills with weapons, fitness, and then general knowledge in the afternoon, running through the different lands, properties of herbs, levels of magi and anything else they could think of. By the time evening rolled around, and the sun dipped beneath the horizon for another few hours, Natasha had left to hand a report on his progress to Fury, leaving James and Clint to take advantage of the cooler temperatures and loosely spar together on a smaller bridge near the outskirts of the Warrens. Their session ended an hour or so later when James accidentally kicked Clint over the bridge's edge and into the Plith.

"Let's call it a night," Clint said once he was out of the water. "I'd like to be able to sleep relatively comfortably tonight, and you're not helping with that."

"You started it," James reminded him jokingly.

He snorted, and peeled off his wet shirt. As he began wringing it out James found himself staring quite unreservedly at the man's exposed chest, and it didn't take long for Clint to notice. Smirking, he said, "You can't tell me you've never seen a few scars before? Kind of expected in our profession."

James tried to respond, but his mind was too preoccupied with cataloguing the scars littering Clint's body; even to the untrained eye it was obvious that these weren't all mementos earned from slip-ups on contracts. The vast majority were precisely mapped out in small clusters: scripture and symbols, ritualistic in appearance, old and raised and with the look of being self-inflicted – and James was well-travelled enough to know what they signified. "You're Friaki?"

"Was," Clint said. "My brother and I were chased out of our home while I was still a kid. Our father had gotten himself killed for some reason, and that made us fair game for slavers and other clans. Barney had a plan of sorts, and got us to Cenaria where we joined Carson's guild in the Warrens. I didn't like it much. Got beat on by a couple of bigs fairly regularly – Chisholm and Duquesne. My brother didn't stick around long either, so I learned pretty quickly how to take care of myself. I tell you – getting out of there was the best move I ever made."

"You didn't think to go back?" James asked. "To Friaku, I mean."

Slinging the wet shirt over his shoulder, Clint shrugged. "Honestly, I didn't know much about the place," he admitted as they started to walk. He gestured to his torso. "All of these came from what little Barney knew about our old customs, and he didn't know much. Hell, half of them are probably wrong, or mean the opposite to what I think they do. I gave it up after the bastard ditched me anyway. Cenaria's been more of a home than Friaku – and that's saying something, seeing as I don't consider either place 'home'."

"I know how that feels." He was supposedly born in Cenaria, but all his current memories were of Khalidor and visits to places all over Midcyru. He'd never call Khalidor home, even if that was the land he returned to after missions, yet he didn't have a close enough connection with Cenaria to do the same. "I guess there is no 'home' for guys like us."

"Guess not," Clint agreed with a laugh. After a few minutes of walking in silence, he broke it with a different question. "Were you using your Talent earlier?"

"No." The wetboy stared at him, and he shrugged. "I was never taught to use it."

"You're shitting me?" He shook his head in disbelief, and James frowned.

"Is that a problem?"

"Not so much," Clint said. "Just means we'll have to change a few things." Running a hand down his face, he sighed. "You know what, let's just leave it 'til tomorrow. I'm cold, wet, and too tired to be arsed anymore."

* * *

Over the next few days James found himself constantly 'under assessment'. Clint and Natasha were thorough in their training, pushing him to his limits in several scenarios under the watchful (sometimes unnerving) gaze of either Hill or Coulson, and finally teaching him how to use his Talent. He understood it fairly easily, even with Clint's less-than comprehensive guidance on how to utilise it, and soon he was surpassing even Hill's expectations in regards to what he could do. Frequently he found himself destroying objects far beyond his reach in fights, or landing a blow too-hard on Clint during sparring (one particularly sore moment was when he'd been spinning too fast for his leg to raise properly, and rather than connecting with Clint's diaphragm like he'd intended, his foot had landed somewhere lower), but Coulson assured him it was natural.

"You've been trained to be as good as someone with the Talent without using it yourself," he said. "It won't be long before you understand your limitations and how much Talent you need to use for certain things." It was a fair statement – James had to be reminded more often than not to use his Talent during training.

The memories became infused with dreams during these days. Before he'd been able to tell the difference; now, he'd start out in a memory, sneaking up to an unsuspecting drunkard to acquire his clothing, then suddenly find himself using his Talent to destroy half a house by accident, unable to help the innocents trapped inside. He woke up once already out of bed, Natasha pinned beneath him, a knife positioned at the corner of her eye, both of them covered in sweat. She never said a word while he regained his composure, and he wondered if she understood in some way.

He got a surprise one morning when, instead of waking up to whatever new trap Clint had had 'a friend' assemble over him in the night (and these 'traps' were insanely complicated) he found Phil Coulson sat in his kitchen. "Dress nice," he said. "We're going to see someone about some forms."

Coulson remained silent as he led James into a backwater stretch of the city, the houses becoming a little further apart as they neared the its edge. Finally they stopped outside a dazzling white one with a vast array of herb gardens in the surrounding area, and Fury signalled him to stay back while he approached the door. He stopped short of it, waiting for something, and after a shimmer passed over the wood in front of him. Satisfied, he reached forward and knocked, beckoning James forward as he did so.

"Phil Coulson. To what do we…"

James blinked in surprise. "Sister Potts?"

Sister Potts stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Coulson, a clearly unimpressed look on her face. "Let me guess – Clint picked him up?"

"Is Stark in?" He ignored her question.

With one more glance at James, she rolled her eyes and stepped aside. "He won't be happy that you called by unannounced. And with a guest."

"Then he can deal with it."

"Who can deal with what?" A man appeared at the top of the wooden staircase on their right. He didn't look particularly impressive: scruffy hair and clothes, a short goatee, and soot marks covering his forearms and neck, but the way he watched Coulson and James with bright, almost over-excited eyes suggested to the latter that there was more to him after all. His smile was tight. "Coulson. Long-time no see." His gaze settled over James. "And guest," he said, tone losing the false-friendliness altogether. "What is this?"

"Good to see you looking well, Stark," Coulson said as Stark descended the remainder of the stairs, hostility almost radiating off him. "I've come to ask a favour is all."

"What kind of favour?"

"There's going to be a new noble in town."

Stark's gaze flicked back and forth between the two of them. He scoffed. "That's a bit beneath my talents, don't you think?"

"Fury thinks you're the best there is, which is why I'm here."

"Fury thinks he's got something over me. That's why you're here."

"We do." Coulson strolled over to one of Stark's shelves, fingers brushing the rolled up parchment stacked haphazardly at shoulder-height. "It would be a shame if your supplies were to run out, wouldn't it?"

James watched curiously as something close to panic flickered in Stark's eyes before he smirked humourlessly. "I like the way you talk, Coulson. I hate you for it, but then there'd probably be some other asshole I'd have to deal with instead of you, so I guess I can't complain."

"And yet you do." Coulson walked round behind James, clapping him on the shoulder. "James, this is Anthony Stark."

"Tony. My father called me Anthony."

"James is our latest member, and I'd like him up high, so to speak."

"I thought being 'up high' was Hawkeye's forte." Coulson stared at him, and Tony raised his hands. "Whatever you say, big guy. James, nice to –" Halfway towards shaking James' hand, Tony stopped and stared at his left arm. "Now what do we have here?"

"Uh, just – hey!" Tony had pushed up the sleeve covering his metal arm, and was now staring at it with a mixture of awe and fear.

"This is incredible," he said. "Whoever constructed this was… well a genius! There's no other word. I've been looking into metal preservation, but I've never thought that combining it with… I mean, this should technically be impossible. These weaves – they're so simple, and yet they're each working off one another – adjust the order they've been placed in even minutely and you could ruin the whole combined effect!"

James swallowed. "Please don't."

"How did you do this? Where did you do this? Who helped you? No, wait, don't tell me – was it Osborn? Rhodes?"

"Who –"

"I wouldn't mind so much if it was Rhodes –"

"Stark."

Both Tony and James jumped at Coulson's tone, and Tony dropped the sleeve back down. James backed away a little, worried that Tony's interest in his metal limb was far from abated. The mage cleared his throat. "Right, so, documents." He lead them through to the back of the house, which James noticed was littered with bits of metal, scrolls, books and herbs – and a dog, who watched them disinterestedly from the corner of the study.

"I trust you're up to date with the styles?" Coulson asked.

"'Course I am. I'm up to date on everything. Pepper? I think we're running out of ink."

It was Sister Potts who answered. "I'll get some at market tomorrow."

"Thanks Pep. Right, so what are we looking at? Birth certificates? Family crest? Certificate of service?"

"Just the background necessities for now," Coulson instructed.

"Got it. Jarvis? Where'd I put the blank templates?" To James' surprise, the dog picked itself up and trotted over to a set of drawers, bumping the bottom one with his nose and looking back at them. "Thanks boy."

As Tony rummaged around, James turned a questioning look to Coulson. "What's all this about?"

"We're making you a noble."

He blinked. "You're kidding." Coulson raised his eyebrows. "Right, of course not. But how the hell are you going to make me a noble?"

"Mr Stark here is an expert at forgery," the Shinga's hand explained, "both of the metal and documentation varieties. We'll get you invites to nobility events, pretend you're new to the area, give you a legitimate backstory, and as a result you'll be our eyes and ears amongst them."

Tony spread out an array of sheets on his desk, and James shook his head. "You can't seriously tell me this will work?" he said. "I mean, nobles know each other. They'll see me as a fraud right off!"

"No they won't," Coulson disagreed calmly, then turned back to Tony. "He'll need a family name. A non-descript one, not too prominent."

"So something like… Wilson?"

"No, the Wilsons are too loud. They'll kick up a fuss if they hear. And Wade would take it too literally."

"Good point. Okay then… Richards? We could pass him off as Reed's brother."

"No," James choked out. When they both looked at him quizzically, he struggled to think of a reason besides 'I killed him and it would be weird taking his family name'. "Wouldn't Richards have told people about me? They'll wonder why he didn't."

Tony shrugged. "We could probably make a story for that."

Thankfully, Coulson was shaking his head. "Richards is too high. We need something lower."

They tossed around a few more names, including Pym, Munroe, Summers and Wagner, but each one came with its own set of problems; it was a long time before Tony, on the verge of getting bored, threw one last name into the air. "How about Barnes?"

"Barnes?" Coulson echoed.

He nodded, swinging his feet off his desk and letting his chair fall back onto four legs. "Rebecca Barnes was the last well-known member of the family to live here. She died about a year ago, but nobody really seemed to notice. We say that James here was a distant cousin of hers gone travelling, and that the news only reached him a few months ago."

Coulson tucked his chin into his hand. "Was this Rebecca Barnes married?"

Tony shook his head. "No children either. She was a Baroness, and her estate is modest but easily recognisable as a noble's household. And, I believe, up for sale – but if we prove that we have an heir in our midst, it'll be his."

"I don't recall seeing a Barnes on the last few attendee lists of dinners."

"She didn't go. Not a fan of the bigger dos, apparently."

"James Barnes…" After a minute, Coulson nodded. "It'll do. Give him a secondary name too, something in keeping with the family."

"Buchanan was the grandfather's name."

"Then put that down."

James watched, slightly dazed, as Tony printed 'James Buchanan Barnes' onto a blank birth certificate before asking him about his birth date, his weight, where he might have been born, and then adding the same details to other important looking documents. Pretty soon, he even had a family crest in the collection that was handed to Pepper to be stitched onto his new clothes. "New clothes?"

She nodded. "You can't turn up to noble events looking like a peasant."

"Yeah, right…"

Coulson and Tony began discussing financial formalities, including house and land ownership, and eventually it all became a little too much for James. He excused himself, thanking everyone for their kindness but leaving before they could say anything else to him. He'd been in this city for a little over two months, and already he'd gone from street worker to local hero to minor noble. He needed some space to breathe, and perhaps some time to relax.

* * *

Staring down at the freshly caught fish, Bruce sighed, and felt his stomach growl. This was the third night in a row they'd had to eat fish, but as Betty pointed out: they were limited unless they caught a rabbit during the day, and knew that this would be a possibility before they set out. Even so, there was only so much he could do with fish, and not very good fish at that.

"We should reach the base of the mountain in a couple of days," Betty said as they ate. She had been staying quietly optimistic throughout their journey, keeping her husband on the positive side whenever it looked like he was getting impatient or frustrated with their slow progress. "It'll be easier to find places to sleep then. There'll be caves, I'm sure."

"Uninhabited caves, I hope."

"Well, I can't deny that bear would make a change from fish and rabbit," she joked. He gave her a small smile back, and the silence settled over them again. "Bruce?"

"Hm?"

"If we do find Stephen – and I truly hope that we do – what will we do next?"

Bruce had asked himself that question, and it wasn't an easy one to answer. "We talk," he said with a shrug. "Maybe try and convince him to come back with us."

"But those things he did to James – what if that's who he is now?" Betty said quietly.

"I don't think so."

"Think? Or hope?"

He faltered. "Both," he said eventually. Seeing her face fall a little he reached across and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. "Wherever Stephen is, we'll find him, and we'll help him," he assured her. "We're his friends. That means something to him, I know it does."

Mustering up a smile, Betty nodded in agreement. "I just hope he's alright," she said in a small voice. Neither of them was considering the possibility of their friend not being alright, because the consequences, if that was indeed the case, frightened them both.

* * *

James couldn't sleep. There were too many things running through his head: his training, both old and new, memories of Cenarian nobles he'd killed, Natasha, all the information he needed to know to make Baron James Buchanan Barnes believable, Clint's history, Tony Stark's reaction to his arm, Darcy's comments on his almost-noble appearance, and Charles Xavier's last words to him. A lot had happened in a short space of time, and despite the mage's advice, James realised he was probably going to have to come to terms with his future before his past.

"Is that possible?" he whispered into the darkness. He received no answer, and remembered with bitter humour all the times he'd prayed to Khali back in Khalidor, how he'd always thought (or been made to think) that she'd heard him, somehow, and was considering his wishes. These days he found it hard to believe in either Khali or the One God that some people believed in here. In his eyes, there was more evidence to suggest that neither existed. The idea was nice, though.

Clint had spoken once of a Night Angel that supposedly watched over all wetboy activity, the ideal deliverer of justice and retribution, one who only dealt death to those who deserved it. He sounded too good to be true, and James felt foolish imagining an urban legend offering him guidance and redemption – but if he sent a quiet prayer out into the darkness, nobody was around to know.


	6. Spies and Lies

**AN: **Small disclaimer: I may have borrowed a teeny, tiny quote from the 'Hulk vs Wolverine' animation... If you've watched it, you might recognise said quote. If you haven't watched it, do what I did and watch it for Deadpool. ;-) Also, a warning in advance - updating may not happen as frequently as I managed for the first five chapters from now on. Deeply sorry :/ x

* * *

When Winter Strikes

**6. Spies and Lies**

"Lady Sif? Mr Fury wants to speak to you."

Sif refrained from groaning out loud. He always called at the most inappropriate times – deliberately, of course. He thought that if he saw her like this, without her makeup on, no fancy outfit to bolster her confidence, he could claim some form of professional 'dominance' over her. In that sense he reminded her of her father: both men believed they knew how to control her. "Send him up, Wanda." Sif glanced in her mirror, knowing that she didn't really have time to cover up her scars. Still, she could tie up her hair, and as soon as that was done he knocked on her door.

Fury entered at her bidding, letting the door close softly behind him. In all the time she'd known him, Sif swore he'd only ever worn one outfit. She raked her eyes over him slowly, from his eye-patch down to his boots, and was rewarded with Fury's take on a smirk. "You still disapprove."

"I know the Sa'kagé are fond of their shadows, but I think you take it somewhat too far, Nick."

"And I know courtesans aren't ashamed of their bodies, but they usually remain modest when not on the clocks." He was referring to her night shift, made of fine lace and quite translucent.

"Nothing you haven't seen already."

Refusing to comment further, Fury sat down in her armchair, leaning back and making himself comfortable. "What news do you have for me, Sif?"

She rolled her eyes. "Very little you do not know already, I'm sure." The raised eyebrow suggested he was waiting. "The only interesting things I can think to tell you are that the furore over who gets the Barnes estate is still raging on, but the Drakes are no longer interested in it, and there's been a lockdown on all Sethi wine trades. The Emperor is furious, of course, but why he'd want to poison Odin is beyond anyone's guess."

"So somebody closer to home did it?"

"It's a rumour at the moment, but I'm sure you'll want to dig into it somehow."

Fury tented his fingers. "Yes. And now I have a means to do so."

"Your new wetboy?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she smiled back. "Please Nick, you should know that nothing stays secret around me. The Winter Soldier, too. Quite impressive for Clint."

"Sometimes I wonder if your girls use means beyond their natural abilities to procure you this information."

"They don't need other means. Men should just stop exaggerating their intelligence."

That earned her a chuckle. Rare these days. "You're right. The man formerly known as the Winter Soldier is the perfect person to investigate this murder attempt – but not yet. We need to finalise his position among the nobility before sending him in, and even then I'd like to send him on a practise run first."

"So you've already sent him to Stark?"

"We have. That furore you mentioned will quiet down within the next few days, I predict."

"Ah. I see." James Barnes – it sounded good, but the direction Fury had pushed him in surprised her. "I would have thought you'd want him for insight, though. An ex-Khalidoran spy at your fingertips – you'd be passing up an opportunity."

"That will come later. We don't want to scare him off."

Sif let it drop, but not after she let him recognise her disapproval. It was cruel to provide the young man with the impression of a new life – which he must want – only to force him into his past once it was within his grasp. Not so tactfully, she changed the subject. "You've not dropped the Banners, have you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Remy hasn't been by in a while."

"You're right. He hasn't. But what does that have to do with the Banners?"

"Let's not bullshit tonight Nick. I'm asking because I'd like to know whether Bruce is about to snap any time soon, and my reliable source in that matter is gone. Also, Rogue misses her Gambit, and when one of my girls is upset –"

"Gambit is still with the Banners, but they're out of the city."

"Where have they gone?"

"North." Her eyes widened. "They're looking for Strange."

That piece of information surprised her. "Strange has been gone for years. What could have possibly spurred them to go and look for him now?"

Fury leaned forward. "The Winter Soldier's memory was tampered with." He watched the implications of that sink in, then stood. "If you could find me anything more about this wine fiasco I'd be most grateful."

"You're not worried about where the Banners are headed?"

"No. I don't believe Khalidor's interested in them."

"And yet they've left so soon after an attempt against the King. If Thanos has Strange, he'll know about Banner –"

"Making Banner a point of interest to him, yes, but then think about this: if the Godking did know about the Hulk, why would he not already have made a move?"

Sif scowled. "Remy's keeping you updated?"

"He borrowed one of Falcon's birds." Fury sighed through his nose, expression grim. "Whatever's happening in the world, I hope it's something we can deal with."

* * *

Had he been in a better mood, James would have been more excited about moving into the Barnes estate. As it was, little sleep and a trickier-than-usual wake-up-trap made him grumpy, and the Shinga's left hand, Maria Hill, did nothing to soothe his temper. She didn't like him, that much was obvious, and all his attempts to be civil to her were met with a cool indifference. He was half-glad half-despairing when Tony Stark showed up as well.

"Nice place, Barnes," he greeted him, gazing round the foyer appreciatively. "Not bad for a baron, anyway."

"Thanks," James muttered. The whole 'Baron Barnes' thing had yet to sink in fully, and the estate only added to the surreal turn his life had taken.

"Stark. You have the papers?" Hill asked sharply, appearing on James' right.

Tony smiled. "Maria Hill, terrifying as always; how are – papers, right, death glare received and understood." He pulled out a thick set of folded documents and handed them over. "There's just one thing," he said suddenly as Hill was about to take them. "I've done all this for Fury, now I want him to do something for me."

"Ask him yourself," Hill growled, attempting to pull the papers from Tony's fingers.

He held firm. "You know I would if I could. I know how his system works: to get to Fury, I have to go through either you or Coulson, and since both of you have a habit of only turning up when you so desire I am forced to take whatever opportunities I have. Normally I'd go through Coulson –"

"You could've asked him last time you saw him."

"Except I hadn't had the idea then, so it'll have to be you."

A muscle twitched in Hill's jaw. "Get on with it Stark."

Tony gestured to James with his free hand. "I want to draw up his first contract."

There was silence as Hill contemplated this. "Why are you only asking now?"

"I've been doing a lot for Fury lately," he said. "Convincing Pepper to help, building that stupid armour, and now all this paperwork too, and what have I got in return? Almost nothing. I know Fury's a man of honour – in his own way – and what I'm asking isn't much."

"That depends who it's for."

"Someone big." Hill raised an eyebrow. "Look, Hill, the guy needs some experience –"

"I have more than you think," James said.

"And this name isn't going to cause any problems if he disappears. In fact, I'd say it was a mutually beneficial deal." She remained unmoved. "Of course, if you say no, I'll just go to an assassin, and have them do it sloppily –"

"And what makes you think the Shinga will even accept your proposal?" Hill asked icily.

"Like I said, mutually beneficial." Tony glanced at their hands, both still holding the documents fairly tightly. "So do we have a deal?"

"Fine," Hill said after an extended pause. Ripping the papers from the mage's hand, she stalked away without another word.

James watched her go with some trepidation. "I thought it was just me she was like that around."

Tony snorted. "Come one. How many people do you think I manage not to piss off?"

"Fair point." They strolled outside, the sun bright over the small front garden the Barnes household had come with. "So, you want to give me a contract?"

"Figured it might be easier doing it for someone you already knew. That, and I need to know that whoever's taking this on is up for it."

"And you think I am?"

"There's just something about you. You seem all… failure-no-option-y. I mean don't get me wrong, the Black Widow is equally do-or-die, but I have a thing about sending women into the line of fire. That and she scares me. I know for a fact she'd make my testicles hurt for a week for making that women comment just now. Then she'd hand me over to Pepper."

James smirked. "What would Pepper do?"

"Be unsympathetic. And maybe force me to look at my business."

"You run a business?"

"Technically she runs it in my name." He shrugged. "But yeah. It was my dad's until he kicked the bucket. Weapons manufacturing, nothing exciting."

"I wouldn't have guessed," James said, making Tony laugh.

"I know, right? It's an outrage. Then again, most people are convinced 'outrageous' is my middle name. It's not, by the way, it's Edward."

"Better than Buchanan."

"Are you kidding? 'Buchanan' will get you anywhere. All you have to do is hoity your toity along with it and boom – you're dining with the King."

He groaned. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"But you'll take my contract?"

They stopped, and James narrowed his eyes. "If it's given to me; I don't have much say in the matter, apparently."

"Hey, if it's any consolation, it'll take your mind off all this," Tony said, waving back at the house (small mansion) they were stood in front of. It wasn't really, but he didn't want to say anything – Tony was trying to do right by him, and at least he more-or-less knew where he was when he had a target to focus on. James just hoped he could go through with the contract and come out unscathed.

* * *

_Bucky wasted no time in making sure the Holwing Commandos' latest member was properly welcomed, and soon had him introduced to all his friends._

_"This is Dum Dum." Dum Dum wasn't actually dumb – it was just a nickname he'd garnered from… somewhere. He had a thing for hats and was trying to grow a moustache, but with little success in the facial hair area nobody really thought he'd end up with anything substantial._

_"That's Falsworth." Falsworth liked to pretend he was a noble sometimes. He was down-to-earth and gifted with more common-sense than most, and knew where to get good smokes from. He was a generally good guy to have around, even if the noble act became grating sometimes._

_"Here's Morita." The thing with Morita was that he looked like he came from the Sethi Empire, but he claimed not to be; he never acted like a fishy either, and didn't put those weird rings in his face. He had a tough-guy attitude, and was also on the small side, but Bucky wouldn't want to face him in a fight._

_"Gabe." Bucky didn't know anyone who looked like Gabe, with his dark skin and short, tightly curled hair. Some of the bigs picked on him for it, but the guy could stand up for himself. He had a knack of getting gossip for everyone, hearing all kinds of things from other guilds and even stuff from across the river._

_"And Dernier." Dernier spoke gibberish. Sometimes they could get basic messages across to him, but otherwise they left it to Gabe, the only one who remotely understood what the kid was saying. One thing everyone understood though was Dernier's obsession with making things explode._

_"Hey, where's Toro?" Everyone shrugged. "Never mind, we'll introduce him when he shows up." Toro had what Bucky would call a fiery nature, and the two got on pretty well. He had a feeling him and the new kid would get on like a house on fire._

_The little guy beamed at everyone, friendly and open despite being new and… well, tiny. Any other kid would've been terrified, Bucky thought, but this guy took on bigs twice his size and number, something even Morita would think twice about. As the night came closer they took him to their 'base'. "Ya can sleep next to me if ya want."_

_"Are you sure? I'm not exactly a quiet sleeper."_

_"Course I'm sure. And ya can't be much worse than Dum Dum."_

_"Shut it, Bucky!" Dum Dum snapped, but Morita was already imitating his legendary snoring. Laughter echoed around the tiny hut they'd claimed for themselves, the guild insignia bright white against the grey iron wall, and it was a long time before any of them fell asleep. The slightly wheezy breathing in Bucky's ear was annoying to begin with, but then he realised that it was a good sign: the kid was alive. So long as he was breathing, wheezily or not, he was alive – and with his size and health issues, Bucky was determined to make sure it stayed that way._

* * *

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Two days after James had officially moved in, Clint and Natasha had shown up for a 'house-warming' drink, bringing with them some fairly decent Sethi wine they'd managed to pilfer from the warehouses down at the docks. They hadn't been drinking long (long enough for Clint to start acting out each story he told) when James had heard a noise from upstairs; he and Natasha had gone to investigate, telling Clint to watch the door just in case, and had split up to take a wing of the house each. James hadn't been expecting to find anyone really. He definitely hadn't expected to find a man with two swords strapped to his back stood in the middle of his bedroom carefully inspecting some of James' tunics. He wasted no time in immobilising the stranger, knowing the commotion would get Nat's attention.

"Answer me before I start cutting body parts off," he growled as the man squirmed underneath him.

"In that case, can I request that you start with my toes first? I need them less than anything else."

"That doesn't answer my question." James slid out a knife, placing the point of it near the idiot's crotch.

"Aw, come on man, that'll hurt!"

"Exactly."

"Oh. Right. Torture. Sorry – I forget not everyone has a knife kink."

"What the –"

"For the love of Nysos." Turning to look over his shoulder, James was relieved to see Natasha stood in the doorway. Her expression, however, confused him. "Wade, what the fuck are you doing here?"

From his position underneath James, Wade shrugged. "Hawkass said I should come and meet the new guy."

"You know this lunatic?" James asked as Natasha turned round.

"Hawkass. Here. Now," she called, her tone sending shivers up James' spine.

"You got the tinglies too?" Wade asked him. "I'm not sure if it means I'm scared or aroused when she does that."

"James, you can get off him," Natasha said. "He knows what I'll do if he tries anything."

"Maybe I want you to do it, Red."

"It'll involve pain and blood and you won't be aroused in the slightest."

Wade jumped to his feet, leaning closer to James. "Normally I'd disagree. Pain and blood can put an interesting twist to sex, but where she's involved –"

"You're sick."

"So say many people. To that I say: who knows?"

Clint stumbled in to the room, eyes widening when he saw who was in it. "Wade?"

"Hey Hawkass. Kindly let everyone know that it was you who told me to come and get to know the new guy?"

Natasha had her 'start explaining' face trained on Clint, and the archer rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. "I thought James should get to know him. I mean, he is a… 'colleague' of sorts."

"Yeah, we're work buddies!" Wade chirped. "We trade banter and you-had-to-be-there stories and office gossip."

"We don't work in an office," James pointed out.

"Hmm… Something needs to be done about that."

"Okay," he said to Clint, "I understand that I should know who I'm… working with, but why is he in my bedroom?"

"I dunno. I told him to come along so that he could find out more about James with us."

"And that's what he's doing," Wade said. "He knows that James likes to sleep close to the window even though it's a bit of a death wish should someone decide to assassinate him, that James has lots of Khalidoran weapons, and not enough short-sleeved shirts, but he figured that was for the whole 'my arm is made of metal and shines like the holy hand of God in the sunlight' thing."

There was a short silence, broken by James asking: "This guy's a wetboy?"

"One of the best there is," Natasha said, but her tone suggested she couldn't quite believe she was saying it.

"Red, you flatter me!" Wade grinned.

"Only because you're success rate is the highest out of all of us, Deadpool," she snapped. "You're grossly indiscreet."

Deadpool tsked. "Discreet dischmeet. There's no fun in being Sneaky Sneakerson all the time. I'm only quiet when I want to be – e dot g, when I'm setting up traps around Newbie's head."

"That's you?" James sputtered.

Wade blinked. "Did I jump the plot?"

"This is the guy you let hang knives and darts around my room for me to wake up to?" he asked Clint. It explained why the traps were always crazy-dangerous.

Clint shrugged. "He's good at them. And it keeps him entertained."

"I'm like a child who needs constant attention. Except for when I don't want anyone around, of course."

"Then he's like a child throwing a temper tantrum," Natasha explained.

"And pointy things!"

James rolled his eyes. "Right, well, this was… insightful. Wade, um… are you going to come downstairs with us?" He had thought about offering him a drink, but he doubted he wanted to see the man drunk.

"Newbie, your hospitality is melting my heart, but alas, I must decline."

There was no denying the slight relief felt at those words. "Why?"

"Because I'm supposed to give you a message."

"A message?"

"Yup. From the Shinga!"

Natasha frowned. "Fury sent you with a message?"

"Strictly speaking, no. But I just happened to overhear him telling Agent Not-So-Scary – who is still alive, by the way – that he's going to give Newbie here the contract."

James felt Natasha and Clint's eyes settle on him. "What contract?" Clint asked.

"One that Tony Stark wants me to take on as 'payment' for him helping Fury."

"You know, Fury will make your life hell if he catches you spying on him again, Wade," Natasha warned.

"I wasn't spying, Red. I was practising spying."

"Same difference."

Wade shrugged. "Whatever. I have to go now. Newbie – I like you. I hope I don't kill you."

"I hope you don't kill me too?" James said, but by the time he'd finished speaking Deadpool had disappeared through the window. "Am I dreaming?"

The other wetboys looked as exhausted as he felt. Clint was probably sober by now. "Wade Wilson takes some getting used to," Nat explained, pressing her fingers against her eyes.

"Wait, Wilson?"

"As in the Wilsons of the Court, yes," Clint supplied. "They disowned him long ago. I doubt they even know he exists, but if they do they don't acknowledge him. At all."

"I'm not surprised." Looking at the small mess Wade had left behind, James sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "Come on – I think we all need a drink after… that."

* * *

Duke Obadiah Stane was the name handed to him on a small scrap of parchment. All he was told was that everything was up to him: information gathering, surveillance, planning, the kill – nobody was going to watch him like a babysitter, mark him on his success and efficiency. He was being given the freedom to work the contract how he liked, something he'd never been able to do under the wrath of the Vurdmeisters. It alleviated some of his fears about flashbacks preventing him from working. Some.

James ended up getting all his information from Tony anyway – the man was so eager to see Stane dead that he didn't care for Sa'kagé formalities. When he finished divulging all he knew, James had to know one more thing: "Why do you want him dead so bad?"

"He screwed me over. Big time. He was my father's old business partner, but he wasn't interested in the business really. He just liked the money. Because of him, I can't move in the direction I want our manufacturing to go, and like I said, I think he plans on bringing Khalidor into the equation. So it'd be better for everyone if he was just gone."

'Everyone'. It was that James kept repeating to himself as he scoped out Stane's mansion, followed his movements from the shadows, noted the times he was alone, who he interacted with most frequently, and the times he questioned what he was doing Tony's word popped into his head. This wasn't a selfish kill, this would benefit multiple nations across Midcyru – it could hinder Khalidor.

His preparations came to fruition three weeks after receiving the contract officially. Having no family, James had worked out that the only time Stane would be truly alone would be at night when he slept. The Duke wasn't stupid, though – he'd had a mage place clever weaves along the windows and doors of his house according to Tony, ones that alerted the occupant to intruders who passed through them. James had tested them once or twice, and found they were sensitive enough to pick up the movements of rats – and that had given him an idea.

Cloaked in shadows – a trick he'd developed using his Talent, and one he wished the Meisters had let him use – he lay on top of Stane's roof, the top of his head just hanging over the edge so that he could see the light from the open window below (the man slept with the windows open whatever the weather). Duke Stane himself was inside, preparing for bed judging by the sounds he could hear, and James didn't have to wait long until the orange glow disappeared suddenly, indicating that Stane had blown out the candle; but James didn't move right away – he would have to wait until Stane was comfortable enough to drift into sleep, but not such a deep sleep that he wouldn't wake up at the alarm (that had happened once – and if the night staff hadn't run in, James would probably have taken the opportunity there and then). From his time as the Winter Soldier, when shadows didn't bend around him at will, James was a master of patience.

Half an hour later, he moved. Sliding round on his belly, James lowered himself down until he dangled by his fingertips from the roof edge, then moved his left foot around against the wall, feeling for a gap where he'd taken a brick out previously. He soon found matching ones for his feet and hands, all removed by himself one at a time over a week or so, and was able to scale the wall until he was next to the window. This was the tricky part of his plan; shifting his limbs so that he was hanging by his right hand and foot, as close to the window's edge as possible, he slipped his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a large rat he'd found earlier – slightly drugged so it wouldn't squirm and squeak, and still looking a little groggy. James frowned. He thought he'd timed it so the creature would be a little more awake, but reckoned a half-awake, pissed-off Stane wouldn't be so bothered.

He readjusted his grip on the gap in the wall but loosened his foot a bit. Gradually swinging his body as much as his position would allow, James pulled on his Talent and swung himself up and through the window, keeping a tight hold on his shadows as the alarm started blaring in his ear. As he landed, feet muffled again by his Talent (he didn't need to use it for that, but he wanted to be safe), he dropped the rat onto the floor by the window, and as Stane flailed and swore from his bed James crept quickly to the corner of the room, pressing himself into the darkness as much as he could.

Watching the Duke untangle himself from his bed-sheets and blunder about in the poor lighting would have been comical in any other situation. He was hollering for his staff as he clumsily searched for a way to light his candle, but when someone arrived with one already lit he swore at his unlit one before demanding a search of the house.

"Someone's inside!" he shouted. "Find them! Find the buggering bastard and bring them to me!"

"Uh, I don't think that'll be necessary, my Lord."

"Why the hell not?"

The man with the candle aimed it towards the base of the window, where James' rat sat, still groggy and disoriented. "It's just another rat, it seems."

"How the devil are they getting in here?" Stane seemed to want a response, and when none of the staff present could answer, he cussed them all profusely and jabbed a finger at his 'intruder'. "Deal with it – and search for more! I'm sick of the fucking things appearing in my house. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord," the candle-bearer said as a servant girl bent down to scoop up the rodent. "We'll begin a thorough investigation."

"You'd better," Stane growled. "Now get out." The party left, throwing Stane's room back into darkness. Muttering to himself about inept staff and overzealous wildlife (in much more obscene language), the Duke fell back into bed, and James began the second waiting game. Another half an hour later, he stepped forward from the inky depths.

One of the elements of killing that both the Meisters and wetboys had emphasised was the need to pay attention to detail, and to work strictly with what you knew; James had learnt from the Meisters how to move without making a sound, how to balance out his weight as he moved whilst staying hidden, and with Clint and Natasha he'd learnt how to muffle his footsteps using his Talent. During his weeks of preparation, one of the details he had taken note of was which parts of which floorboards creaked when weight was pressed down on them, and now he mapped out the path that would take him slowly but silently to Stane's bedside, using both his Talent and the skills taught to him many years ago. An assassin might have cringed at the time it took him to move two metres, but James had time on his side. If anything, slower was better, because it meant his target was falling into an even deeper sleep.

Five minutes later and James was stood looking down at his first contract, his first 'deader' as Clint had put it. The next part was the easiest part of the whole job: take the blade and give a quick swipe across the throat, other hand over the mouth in case the deader woke up. Make sure to pierce the jugular for a quicker death – no suffering needed here, although that wasn't a requirement. Wait until the pulse weakens substantially enough to suggest the deader won't be able to stop the bleeding or call for help – then disappear.

Except, James couldn't disappear. He couldn't move. He was just staring at Obadiah Stane (except he wasn't, hadn't been for weeks now – he'd been the deader), watching the blood colour his rich pillows at an alarming rate, vibrant even in the pitch blackness, and seeing the same thing happen to many, many more: Matthew Murdock, Jubilation Lee, George Stacey, Reed Richards again…

The alert wards would stop working at sunrise. Waiting for dawn to break from under the four-poster bed, all James could do was remind himself that this death had a good reason behind it. Nobody would really miss Duke Obadiah Stane, and Tony hadn't asked him to do it for selfish reasons. The staff could get new jobs, for nicer people – hopefully… What if they couldn't? What if some of them ended up on the streets, begging? Or working worse jobs like he had on bare wages? Would they find themselves arrested? The grey morning finally showed itself above the window ledge. He could see a slither of colourless sky from where he lay, and moved soundlessly to the window. Almost forgetting to double check the wards had truly gone down, James left quickly, not looking back but not really seeing anything else. His Talent prevented him from breaking any bones as he dropped from the bedroom, and then he was walking into an underground pantry, changing out of the wetboy greys, stuffing them in a bag, walking back out onto the streets as if he had a place to go. He'd originally planned to go back to the Shinga, announce that the job had been done, but his feet were going somewhere else. It didn't matter – the whole city would know by noon anyway.

It was almost sundown when James emerged from the stable he'd curled up in, one he'd used before the Sa'kagé found him, with a destination in mind; more specifically, a person.


	7. People and You

When Winter Strikes

**7. People and You**

"I hurt someone last night."

"Who?"

James tilted his head to the left. Darcy wasn't looking at him, staring instead at the canopy above their heads. Swallowing, he opted to do the same. "You've probably heard already."

"I heard that some noble called Obadiah Stane died last night." Her tone was completely casual, as if she was discussing this with a friend, not some messed-up – not him.

"Do you know how?"

"No. But I don't really want details," she added quickly.

He was more than happy to miss them out, and swallowed thickly. "I didn't hesitate," he whispered. "Not until after… after I realised how easy it was. How easily I'd done it… And then I couldn't think why."

"Why what?"

Shaking his head, he tried to answer her question. "Why I agreed; why I found it so uncomplicated; why I took up killing again – take your pick."

Darcy nodded slowly, gaze still concentrated on the canopy. "So, you want some answers?"

"Yeah…"

She finally shifted, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand. Her teeth worked her bottom lip as she thought, and James began to doubt that she'd come up with anything that could console him. "There must be reasons," she said eventually, "otherwise you wouldn't have taken it in the first place. So what were those reasons?"

James frowned. "Stane, he was… The contractor was worried he was going to do something involving a weapons business and Khalidor. Said it would be better if he was dead."

"Better?" He nodded. "For who?"

"For everyone."

"So in killing this Stane guy, you saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. That's a pretty good reason to kill someone, I think."

It was, he knew that – and yet… "But his staff. They had nothing to do with this, and now they have nowhere to go. They've lost their jobs, and it's my faul-"

"Which is worse: thousands of people being killed an enslaved by an invading army, or a handful of servants losing their jobs?"

James deflated. "Okay. I got it."

"Great. One down, two to go."

They continued like this for the next half an hour, the subsequent questions linking back to James' past as the Winter Soldier, and thus requiring more discussion to unlock satisfactory answers. Darcy never pressed him for information he didn't want to share; she let him take his time, gently bringing him back if he drifted off into a memory and waiting patiently when he couldn't find the words. He thought she should be repulsed by him – he was a killer, a stone-cold killer, and he was openly talking about it as if it was an everyday occupation. He said as much once the final 'answer' had been found, and was astonished when she just laughed in response.

"Come on! Don't you remember what I told you last time?"

"You told me a lot of things," James reminded her a little wryly.

"Okay, good point – but I distinctly remember saying that you were one of the nicest people I'd ever met."

"Had in your room, actually." He hadn't expected her to practically beam at him after that comment, but that's exactly what Darcy did. "What?"

"That's the not-quite-a-noble I remember," she said. "You came close to smiling then. Admit it."

He stared at her. "Why should I?"

"Because smiling's good, both for the soul and the psyche. Lady Sif said so, anyway. Jess insists it's true as well, and I like it when you smile, so I guess it counts for something. But it has to be a genuine smile, otherwise you're just lying to yourself, and that's a major no-no too."

"You like it when I smile?"

Darcy suddenly turned a shade of pink. "Uh… Yeah. I mean, it's… People look… In general, that is – not that I'm saying you're general! You're very un-general… In a good way –"

"Anything else you like?" He was smirking now, and found she was right. His mood was lifting, all thoughts of killing and ruining lives being replaced by the desire to see how far he could push her until she launched into a random babble to make him stop.

To his surprise, the stammering stopped, and she met his lewd smile with one of her own. "Your ass looks pretty awesome," she declared. "And I seem to remember that under that shirt, you're kinda buff." He raised his eyebrows; she quirked one back. Next thing they knew James' shirt was on the floor – but although his scars were clearly on display her lingering gaze was appraising, and the flirty smirk stayed on his face. Darcy shifted closer, trailing her fingers lightly up his metal arm. "I like this," she murmured. "It's the perfect shape. Hard, but not uncomfortable. Shiny," she added, wiggling her eyebrows. "And it makes you unique."

'Unique'. It was a word that had been used to describe him before, but the sub-text beneath it then was entirely different; it had meant unparalleled, unstoppable, and alone. They told him he was 'unique' so that he wouldn't have fear, so that he knew the effects of his presence on his victims, knew his place in the world, his value as a weapon. The metal arm had been something of an emotional burden since his re-awakening, and he hadn't felt anything far from resent towards it. But the way Darcy said 'unique', she made it sound like… a good thing.

"Your turn."

James blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

Darcy grinned down at him. "Come on – I complimented you, now you compliment me. Are you or are you not a sort-of noble?"

She seemed so at ease with him it was almost unreal. Part of James wondered if it was just an act, that she made every man to enter her room feel like this – and then he wondered why that was important, told himself it wasn't, and shifted so he could lean on his metal elbow and 'study' her. "You have an extraordinary face," he said at length. "You could wear anything, and it wouldn't look at all wrong – just change people's first impressions from 'cute' to 'stunning', and everything in between… And I know you may have heard that from your clients already, but –"

"No," she cut him off softly. "None of them have ever…" Darcy shrugged one shoulder. "They've gushed about my body, told me I'm beautiful, gorgeous, or whatever, but no-one… I've never had my face complimented before."

There was a beat before they both suddenly started laughing. "It sounds stupid when you put it like that!" She agreed, unable to say anything through her laughter, and it was a few minutes before either of them could calm down. James flopped back down against the pillows, craning his neck to look at her as he tried to think of the last time he'd laughed like that. "I meant it, though."

"I know." She smiled down at him, hand coming to rest once again on his metal arm. "So did I."

* * *

When James finally presented himself to the Shinga and his hands, the first thing he received was an earful about the punctuality of reporting in when asked to do so. He didn't tell them where he'd been (and it came as a surprise that they didn't already know) and rattled off a bare-bones description of what had happened, leaving out the parts where he'd nearly broken down and hid in a stable. After a few more questions from Hill and Coulson he was handed his payment, which turned out to be enough to put more legitimacy to his status as a noble, and told he could go.

When Clint and Natasha found out, Clint declared his success had to be celebrated, and pulled him to some of the city's lesser-known taverns. It wasn't a shock to find that Clint knew many of the owners and patrons at these hangouts, and thus the drinks were often cheaper than normal and quicker-flowing than James realised. Both he and Clint were pretty far-gone by the time Natasha – sober as a saint still, how had she managed that? – insisted they go home. They staggered along the streets for a bit, Clint attempting to sing an old Friaki melody that he'd half made up before passing out mid-note.

"Shouldn't we help him?" James asked after he'd finished laughing.

Natasha gave a slight shake of her head. "I'll take you home then come back for him. He'll be alright until then."

"How are you not as bad as we are?" he slurred.

She smirked. "I'm used to Clint's antics regarding alcohol. That, and I'm very tolerant."

"Right. Like in Ymmur." James stopped in his tracks. Beside him, Natasha calmly tilted her head.

"Ymmur?"

He frowned, watching as the buildings around him alternated between the atrocity that was Cenarian architecture and an Ymmuri forest, the only constant being the red-haired woman next to him. "You… You were there," he said. There was no confirmation, but no denial either. "I had to take down a stalker. There was this woman, and she was – you were tracking the same guy. So we… worked together? And afterwards –" He stopped abruptly, feeling himself flush and look away. His body seemed to remember that night better than his mind.

"You were surprised by how much I could take," Natasha said (he decided to assume she was referring to alcohol), "and I was surprised that you were letting me live."

Something was telling him this was a conversation better had another day. "We had a common goal," he said, trying to sound casual about it. "You were skilled, and the stalker was a tricky bastard. Made sense."

She raised an eyebrow. "And the sex?"

"I knew it!"

Both of them jumped apart, whipping round to see none other than Wade Wilson grinning from ear to ear at them next to where Clint lay. James groaned as Natasha asked, "Wilson. What do you want?"

"Red, there are lots of things I want, but let's say that for now I want details."

"Details."

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Specifically: when, where, and why. I mean, don't get me wrong. You two together is a totally badass combination of almost unmatched skill with terrifying beauty – and that includes you too, Red – but I just can't imagine either of you getting all cuddly and lovey-dovey with anyone, let alone each other!"

"Nysos," James hissed, "is he serious?"

"Totally," Natasha murmured back.

"Come on, one of you spill the metaphorical beans already!"

"No, Wade."

Wade pouted. "Why not? You're a woman; women love to goss- Okay, you're something more than a woman, I get it, not asking again. Newbie?"

"Over my dead body." Truth be told, he didn't one-hundred per-cent remember the details himself, and not because of the Meisters' tampering.

Deadpool sighed. "Alright. Suit yourself." Reaching behind him he pulled out two katana blades, swinging them round so that the moonlight flashed along each one menacingly. "But it's going to be hard to tell me if you're dead."

"Oh, come on. Wade, I don't want to fight – shit!" The tip of a blade missed his mid-section by millimetres. If he hadn't reacted when he did, jumping backwards and out of reach, the katana would have made a fairly deep trench across his stomach. He landed on his feet but off-balance, and fell onto his back before his brain could catch up (and oh, why hadn't anyone ever thought to train him to fight intoxicated? Poisoned, sure, feverish, sure, but drunk? No, why would they need to do that?). Barely a second after he hit the ground he had to roll to avoid being cut in two, and as he manoeuvred himself back up to his feet his hand found the dagger he kept in his boot, metal fingers curling around the hilt comfortably.

"Ah, now that's more like it," Deadpool crooned, eyeing James up as he slipped into a ready position, knife raised. He grinned darkly. "I've been waiting for this."

On some kind of unspoken signal the two went at each other simultaneously. James' kick was blocked by a katana, the other one swinging round towards his head. It hit his raised metal arm, and as he pushed it off James used his momentum to try and get a high-placed roundhouse kick to Deadpool's head. It missed, and he found himself parrying a succession of rapid blows before he was able to put some space between the two of them and launch his own attack. They were very evenly matched – they parried each other's blows easily, ducked an equal amount, easily worked out what the other was trying to do, and even mimicked each other occasionally. The sound of clashing metal and feet scuffing the ground ought to have attracted attention, but James realised later he and Deadpool probably looked too scary for anybody to want to interfere.

He, at least, felt scary; this wasn't like the times he'd sparred with Clint or Natasha, using dulled weapons and going through pre-planned motions. Deadpool was wild – there was no recognisable style to his fighting apart from his preference for offence rather than defence. His eyes were bright between the sword-flashes, pure concentration on his face emphasised by his silence, but the slight grin on his lips and the multitude of scars on his skin (not self-inflicted like Clint's) made it clear that fighting and killing was something he lived for. James could associate with that: fighting with a blade in his hand felt natural. He could feel his whole body responding to the adrenaline – biological or not – and movements came fluidly and powerfully, sobering him up quicker than any hangover cure. The only difference between him and his adversary here was that James wasn't out to hurt –

"Come on, you're the Winter Soldier, aren't you?" Deadpool growled. "Show me how good a killer you really are!"

Screw it. The crazy bastard wanted to get hurt that badly, James would happily oblige. He stopped holding back, switching his knife to his flesh and bone hand, and going at Deadpool fast and hard, letting his past flow into his muscles. It quickly paid off – he got in a succession of punches that left the wetboy winded, and in the brief pause that followed James razed the knife across his chest. He blinked, breathing heavily; the conscious effort he'd used to not make it a fatal wound was enough to leave his mind reeling, and it took a long time for him to realise that Deadpool wasn't falling. He looked back, and blanched at what he saw.

"What?" Deadpool asked, the tear in his shirt showing a fast-disappearing line of blood on his chest. "You're not gonna stop holding back now, are you?" The cut was a thin scar by the time he'd finished the sentence. James stared, mouth open, as he tried to process what he'd just seen.

"That's enough, Wade." Natasha's voice was calm but authoritative, pulling James back to the circumstances of his fight with the other wetboy.

"Oh no – we're just getting started!"

"You're finishing."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

Deadpool laughed. "What? You the Shinga now, Natasha? Hope Fury agreed to that – for your sake."

"And how do you think Fury's going to react if he finds out the three of us have been slicing each other up?" she challenged, voice low and furious, face close to his. "I don't think he'd keep good on his word to you if you butchered two of his best in the middle of the streets. Do you?"

Though James didn't understand her meaning, Wade clearly did. He flipped his swords over his shoulders, suddenly smiling and offering James a hand up. "That was fun, Newbie. We should do it again some time. Maybe not over the intoxicated body of a co-worker with another stood close by in plain sight of children, but I know a few good locations –"

"What the fuck, Wilson?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. See ya!" And before James could say anything else, he was gone. Again.

"It's called a ka'kari," Natasha explained once they began walking again, Clint now hoisted between them. "We know almost nothing about it, except that it chooses someone to bond with and gifts them with innumerable powers and abilities."

James clicked on to what she was talking about. "Like healing?"

"Like healing."

"Why the fuck did it choose a psycho asshole like Wilson?"

Natasha shook her head. "We've no idea, and neither does he. He claims not to know what else it enables him to do, but Fury thinks he knows more than he's letting on."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Me neither. Regardless, it's a good thing he's on our side. For now."

They hauled Clint back to James' estate, where he insisted Natasha let him stay. She offered to talk more about the times they'd met ("Yes, we've met a few times before now,") and although James would have been more than happy to pass out in a similar manner to their friend, the desire to know more and the knowledge that sleep would probably evade him made him accept her offer. To say they were some of the best memories he'd recovered so far was something of an understatement.

* * *

Not long after his murder of Obadiah Stane, more contracts began coming in for James. Thankfully he was allowed to take his time with them (as long as it wasn't too long), and he didn't suffer from his guilt as much as he had done with his 'first kill'. Something akin to a routine built up: he'd take the job, get it done, then spend time with Darcy and Clint, if the latter was available. Wade continued to hang around at random intervals, and refused to stop setting traps in his house for him to wake up to, revealing that he extended the same courtesy to many other wetboys in the fold ("We think it's his way of saying he likes you," Clint said).

Returning from a contract one night, James was mildly surprised to see Coulson waiting for him outside his house. "Good hunting?" he asked by way of greeting.

James gave a one-sided shrug. "Wouldn't call Otto Octavius much of a hunt. Have I got another one already?"

Coulson shook his head, but held out a folded square anyway. "This is an invitation of a different sort. For Baron Barnes, not the Winter Soldier." He wasn't lying – it not-so-clearly said 'Baron J. B. Barnes' in extravagant, curled cursive. Accepting it, James turned it over, raising his eyebrows at what he saw.

"The King's seal?"

"You're aware of the time of year, aren't you?"

He glanced around him briefly. "Yeah, it's nearly autumn."

"King Odin is fond of his feasts," Coulson explained as the invitation was opened. "He holds annual celebrations at various points during the year. The next one is the Summer's End feast, one which all the nobility is invited to attend."

James squinted at the overly-decorative writing, eventually deciphering its content. "It's tomorrow."

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I have a proper outfit."

"We have someone who can help you with that." His words sounded ever so slightly ominous, and he left James with a deep sense of foreboding. An hour or so later, he still couldn't decide if Coulson's 'help' was a relief or cause for more worry.

"Good afternoon, James."

"Good afternoon, Lady Sif."

Lady Sif smiled brilliantly. "Still the charmer, I see," she mused. "Or are we merely practising for tomorrow night?" He stood there, mouth open like a fish, as he tried to come up with a response, but Lady Sif just laughed. "Don't look so frightened! If what Darcy says is true, then you'd fit right in at the King's court with or without formal noble garb."

"What does Darcy say?"

"Nothing you wouldn't want her to," Lady Sif assured him. "She's growing quite fond of you, James. Be careful." Her expression was still warm but steeled slightly, and it was like looking into the eyes of a mother lion protecting her cubs.

He swallowed. "I will."

For a moment neither of them moved, then Lady Sif blinked and the glamorous courtesan was all smiles again. "Would you like to follow me then, Lord Barnes?"

Hearing the title used properly for the first times, James felt his stomach roll as he followed her through the lounge area. "That's going to take some getting used to."

"Enjoy it, dear," she said over her shoulder, then beckoned to the girl coming in from outside. "Bobbi, come and help Lord Barnes find a suitable outfit for the feast tomorrow."

Grinning, Bobbi asked, "Can I go and find Darcy first?"

As James' eyes widened, Lady Sif smirked. "Go on, then."

The next hour (seriously, it took that long to choose a few clothes?) passed by in a whirlwind of fabrics, colours, cuts, tutting, giggling, and spinning in front of a long mirror. He was surprised at the amount of menswear the brothel had, and tried not to look put-off when Bobbi explained that each item had been picked up after noblemen had left them behind. Though he didn't want to wear filthy, second-hand garments, James refrained from protesting lest he spoil the obvious fun of Bobbi and Darcy, who were thoroughly taking advantage of having a life-sized doll to mix and match outfits for and obviously enjoying every second of his discomfort.

He almost escaped once they'd nodded their approval for a dark, subtly decorated shirt and trousers, but Clint of all people stuck his head into the backrooms and promptly started laughing. A stern telling-off from Bobbi got him to stop, but James was then forbidden from leaving without first having a drink. Several drinks later saw them still both in the lounge. The four of them had been content with each other's company until Lady Sif had directed Darcy to a client. James watched her go, something tight and unpleasant curling in his stomach.

"If you're gonna break that glass, you better be prepared to pay for it."

James blinked, glancing over at Bobbi, who was smirking softly at him, Clint's head on her shoulder. He sighed, setting the glass down on the coffee table. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You should've seen Clint the first time he remembered I wasn't exclusive."

He could imagine that – he'd seen enough evidence to suggest that, while Clint was fine seeing other girls at the brothel when directed to them, he held Bobbi in particularly high regard. "He still insists he loves you."

She rolled her eyes. "I know. Dummy." James didn't hear any malice in her tone, and noticed that she had the fingers of one hand carding through his hair repeatedly.

"I didn't think the feelings were mutual."

"They're not." She paused, eyes taking on the look of someone remembering something with deep fondness. "Once upon a time, yeah, they were. But Clint's problem is… Well, he got a little clingy. Troubled childhood and all that horseshit. He kept talking about starting a new life somewhere else where I wouldn't have to work the sheets. Didn't seem to understand that I couldn't just up and leave like he had done before, and when he turned up one evening with a plan to sell all he had to buy us a way out that I realised I had to break things off."

"How'd he take it?" he asked cautiously.

Bobbi snorted. "How d'you think he took it?" She shook her head. "He didn't speak to me for a few weeks. Started going to Jess instead of me, thinking I'd be bothered by it. It wasn't until I asked him to take care of…" She swallowed hard. "There was this guy. Slade. He didn't treat me particularly well, even after Lady Sif banned him. Clint put a stop to it, free of charge."

The way she spoke of him, how she held him, the look in her eyes as she did – James suspected Bobbi wasn't being completely truthful about her feelings. "You do love him."

She smiled ruefully. "You're right," she agreed. "But I don't think I could be in love with him again." On her shoulder, the passed-out Clint grunted and twitched for a second, and Bobbi raised her eyebrows. "Too much work." With a chuckle, James agreed.

Not wanting to wait around to see Darcy re-emerge with her client, he asked to leave Clint in Bobbi's care before taking his leave. He found himself cross-dreaming that night again, remembering his time with Natasha but seeing Darcy in her place, and he woke up grumpy and in no mood for Wade's latest game (if there wasn't the chance of being seriously hurt by ignoring it, he would have). His day was spent with Coulson brushing up on his knowledge of the King's court, including prominent noble families, correct etiquette, and plausible back-stories to explain his appearance as 'Bullseye' in the archery competition. Before long he found himself dressed in his new attire, invitation in hand, stood outside the doors to the castle, wondering what on earth he'd done to get himself here.

He was ushered in quickly, announced loudly, then left to defend himself as almost every pair of eyes in the room turned and zoned in on him. For a painfully short-but-long moment he stood frozen to the spot, smiling (and hoping it looked sincere) until a servant appeared by his side to show him where he would be sat. Afterwards, he was left to his own devices; a few lower nobles came up to him and expressed their pity at Rebecca's passing, and the ones who recognised him from the competition easily bought his cover story. It was probably half an hour since his arrival that he noticed an elegantly dressed lady stood on her own by the table, staring into space with a full drink in her hand. Normally James was the type to wait for people to approach him, but in this instance, he reckoned she needed someone to talk to.

"It's been a while since I've been to one of these events, but I'm fairly sure it was always considered a crime to leave a beautiful lady without company."

The beautiful lady in question (and she was beautiful) looked around at him as he approached, her interest clearly piqued. "And how would you address the guilty party then?"

James shrugged. "I figured if it was just you and I together, they'd get jealous, ma'am."

"Of course you did." A hint of a smile was forming at the corners of her lips, and he let a full smile grow on his own. "You're Baron Barnes, aren't you?"

He chuckled. "I have a reputation already, do I?"

She shook her head. "Not really. Your arrival was quite the point of interest, and my daughter has noticed you on many occasions." A delicate, gloved hand was raised in his direction. "Lady Margaret Rogers."

"It's an honour to meet you, My Lady," he returned, dropping a kiss to the back of her hand. "Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of meeting your daughter face-to-face sometime this evening?"

"Oh I'm sure she'll brave an acquaintance soon enough. She's almost old enough to marry, and is having no difficulty in picking out potential matches."

James raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Should she?"

He laughed. "I doubt I would be a suitable match for her, My Lady, as much as I regret saying so."

Lady Rogers smiled, and he was almost bowled over by the way it lit up her features. "If she disagreed, you would find yourself discussing dowries with my husband before you could decline. Sharon is… determined, and has had him wrapped around her little finger since she could walk."

"I see. He sounds like every young girl's ideal father, then."

She snorted. "He's far too soft. It's a wonder the King even gave him a position in the military." At James' enquiry, she explained further: "My husband, Count Rogers, is more commonly known as Captain Rogers. Everyone was shocked when he came close to begging King Odin to let him continue to serve. I don't see why, though – he's been military minded ever since I met him."

"Is he not here tonight then, My Lady?"

"He is, actually. If you asked me his exact whereabouts, however, I wouldn't be able to tell you." She rolled her eyes. "Probably lost in some discussion of tactics, or something of the like. But what about you, Lord Barnes? No other family besides poor Rebecca?"

James shook his head. "Afraid not, and we were only distantly related to begin with."

"I suppose the question on everyone's mind is: where on earth have you been, then?"

The lie was so familiar to him it might have been true (and for all he knew, it was). "My childhood wasn't spent in Cenaria like Rebecca's. I was born here, but I grew up in many places across Midcyru: Ceura, Modai, Gandu, Alitaera, even Ossein. Being so used to travel, I continued to live that way until word finally reached me of my cousin's death. I was in Alitaera at the time, visiting an old friend in Skone, and it took a while to return."

"As a commoner, if I recall." Lady Rogers seemed amused by the prospect, and James put on an embarrassed air.

"Yes, well, I had difficulty with some of my finances. I was mugged, you see, but the fools were distinctive enough that I could write to people with fairly accurate descriptions. Until my belongings were returned to me, I had no choice but to earn some money for myself."

"That's quite the tale, indeed," she mused. "I suppose you think you're rather… 'culturally diverse' after such a lifestyle. Or should I say myriad of lifestyles?"

"Extra cultural knowledge comes in handy, I cannot deny. But you needn't fear, My Lady – I've had my share of travel for now."

"I 'needn't fear'?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow; but before he could compose an adequate response a pretty young girl appeared at her elbow.

"So I finally managed to drag Papa away from Lady Danvers. Honestly, Mama, if he wasn't so head over heels for you, I'd say…" Her voice disappeared as she finally laid eyes on James. Lady Rogers smirked at him knowingly.

"Baron Barnes, may I introduce my daughter, The Lady Sharon Rogers. Sharon, I'm sure you know already, but this is Baron James Barnes."

Rapidly blinking, Sharon dropped a dainty curtsey, eyes barely leaving his face. "H-how do you do, My Lord."

James dipped his head in return. "Very well thank you, Lady Sharon."

"Ah, there you are – Lord Barnes," Lady Rogers said, drawing his attention to the blonde-haired man who had come to stand behind her, "this is my husband, Captain Steven Rogers. Steve, this is –"

"Bucky?"


	8. It's Complicated

**AN: **Another borrowed quote in here, this time from 'The Avengers' movie. And also, for those of you unfamiliar with the Night Angel series, think of Wade's ka'kari as an equivalent to his little boxes. (Snarky ka'kari is fun!)

* * *

When Winter Strikes

**8. It's Complicated**

The silence was uncomfortable for all of three seconds, after which Sharon snorted and shook her head. "No, Father. This is Baron James Buchanan Barnes."

James took that as his cue, smiling and offering his hand. "Captain. It's good to meet you."

Captain Rogers took his hand blindly, jaw still slightly slack. "So, you're not…"

"Uh…"

"Steve? A word please?" Lady Rogers intervened, a firm hand on her husband's arm. The Captain blinked himself out of his trance, looking hard once more into James' face before being pushed away by his wife. "Excuse us," she said apologetically, and left James with her daughter.

Sure they were out of earshot, he turned to Sharon and asked, quite bluntly, "Who the hell is Bucky?"

She shrugged. "A childhood friend of his. Father always talks about him, even though Mother and I have heard the stories hundreds of times."

"Do you know why he thought it was me?"

Tipping her head sideways, Sharon said, "Maybe he thought you look like him."

James disguised his relief, thanking the One God that it wasn't anything to do with the Barnes name. "Will he be okay?" he asked instead. "He seems a little shaken-up."

"Mother will deal with him. She always does."

"I can imagine."

"A lot of people say I'm like her," Sharon said, angling her body towards him. "That I've got her hair. And her eyes."

Nodding absently, a thought suddenly struck James. "Was 'Bucky' a nickname?"

"I don't know, I never asked," she answered shortly.

"It has to be," he murmured to himself. "Noblemen wouldn't give themselves common names like that."

"Listen," the young girl said sharply, standing straight and settling her hands on her hips. "My father seems to think he knows you, My Lord, and now you're clearly hooked on the details yourself. So if you do know him, playing games and pretending you have no clue about the topic is highly inappropriate. And so is feigning interest."

Stunned a little by the sudden display of protectiveness, James blinked at Sharon for a long moment. "Uh, no, that's not –"

"Is everything alright?" The return of Captain and Lady Rogers surprised both of them, but as Sharon guiltily relaxed her stance James smiled easily.

"The Lady Sharon was just saying that many people have commented on the similarities between mother and daughter, Lady Rogers," he said. Looking back at Sharon, whose cheeks were now coloured with a notable flush, he nodded faintly. "I can see what they mean, now."

Lady Rogers' eyes flicked between them both before declaring that she and Sharon were going to mingle. They parted with her sending the Captain a meaningful look (and Sharon sneaking one more of James), one that was returned with a simple dip of the head. He turned back to James, and it was easy to see the embarrassment written all over his face. "Please forgive my behaviour earlier, Lord Barnes," he began. "What I called you –"

"Was a mistake," James said, easily cutting him off. "There's no need to apologise, Captain. Lady Sharon explained things; we've all made similar errors here, I'm sure."

Captain Rogers chuckled. "As generous as that is it still doesn't make me feel any less of a fool."

"Regardless, I wouldn't treat you as one, My Lord."

There was a pause, where the Captain looked grateful before picking up the conversation. "Peggy says you're new to the city, relatively speaking. I understand you've been travelling a bit?"

James laughed. "If by 'a bit' you mean all my life, then yes."

"Where have you been?"

Their discussion took them most of the evening, only pausing during dinner, when they were separated by the seating plan, and flowed exceptionally easily, James thought. It started with his Barnes backstory, and him giving out false anecdotes from the various cities he'd visited. The ones that Lord Rogers was unfamiliar with he described instead, working around the ugly memories that hindered his focus and sticking to general features of architecture, city customs, landscape, and sometimes the people. The closer cities Lord Rogers was familiar with, but as he explained to James he had only started travelling somewhat recently with the army, when King Odin promoted him to head of a special division who called themselves The Invaders. He talked about them once the feast was over, and the two were walking back towards the Barnes estate beneath the stars.

"Our speciality is Khalidoran camps. The King's spies send us word whenever one pops up in surrounding territories, and it's our job to eliminate them without causing too much of a scene. Before that, I was a… morale officer, if you like. I – I'm not sure I was very good."

James smirked, envisaging a horde of soldiers trying to laugh with Captain Rogers rather than at him. "Well these Invaders of yours must think you're worth something if they don't mind chasing wytches and Meisters with you."

Lord Rogers laughed. "Yes, I suppose." Then his expression faltered, and he sent a sideways glance at James. "Bucky would have said something similar, I think."

He thought back to the Captain's shock at first seeing him, the way Sharon had described this Bucky, and the comment made just now. "You haven't seen your friend in a long time, have you?"

The Captain shook his head. "I'm a little like you," he said. "I'm not what you'd call native to the Cenarian nobility. I actually grew up in the Warrens, believe it or not." James did not believe it, and the fact must have shown on his face because Captain Rogers laughed again. "I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not lying. I was in two guilds during my childhood, and it was in my second guild that I met Bucky."

"Guild?" He knew what a guild was, but Baron Barnes wouldn't have.

"The Warrens are split into guilds, groups or factions if you like. The only way to survive is to be part of a guild – though my first guild would have killed me if I'd stayed with them, I reckon."

"Why's that?"

With a self-deprecating smile, Lord Rogers elaborated: "I was something of a weakling as a child. 'Runt' I was called once. My first guild didn't like weak links, but Bucky managed to convince his guild head that I was still a valuable member, so I switched. He introduced me to all his friends, showed me all the best hideouts, the best viewpoints, and they all showed me how to fight properly. I'd never been made to feel so welcome in a guild before." A brief flicker of anguish crossed his face. "Even… Even after Bucky disappeared. I wasn't exactly myself, but they still tried."

James nodded solemnly, thinking of the kindness that Xavier and the Banners had shown him when he first stumbled into world as himself rather than the Winter Soldier. "So how did you get out?"

"I was spotted by a man named Abraham Erskine, who turned out to be a Count without a family. He took me in, raised me as his own son, left everything to me in his will when he died. There were some objections, but when the King personally made it clear I was to retain the land I'd inherited my position was more or less accepted."

Enraptured as he had been by the unlikely tale, James was disappointed to see that they'd reached the edge of the mansion – his mansion. "That's a remarkable story, My Lord. If I may say so, I think your friend would be proud of you if he could see what you've become."

Lord Rogers near beamed at him. "Thank you, Lord Barnes. And please, call me Steve."

"Only if you call me James."

"Alright." He extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure, James."

The handshake was firm but warm, and James found himself grinning at his new friend. "Likewise, Steve."

* * *

"Can you see a way?"

Eyes watering from the wind, Bruce shook his head. "It's too steep," he called back, retracing his steps down the side of the mountain and finding the handholds he'd used on the way up. "Even if it wasn't," he continued once he was on more level ground, "it doesn't look like a safe option." He watched Betty's shoulders drop and looked down, jaw clenched.

"We'll have to go back then," she said, voice raised so he could hear her. "Do you remember that slow incline I spotted? The one that looked like a longer route?"

"Yeah, let's try that," he agreed, reigning in his growing frustration. They'd been trekking up the mountain for a few days now, with what felt like increasingly slow progress. They hadn't seen another person since they left the outskirts of Cenaria, and the last of the farmers had provided them with a few cuts of beef. The only people, if any, they were likely to encounter on the mountain were hunters, but with winter just around the corner Bruce would have been surprised to see a group at all. Doubt was taking a firm root at the back of his mind – what if this was the wrong mountain? What if James hadn't remembered correctly? What if something happened to Betty up here? What if he lost control and she was caught in the fray?

"Bruce?"

Blinking back into the present, Bruce followed her back the way they'd come. It still amazed him that, even with a roaring wind competing against them, his name on Betty's lips could still sound so soft, so concerned. He knew that his temper was shortening the longer they spent up the side of this cursed hill, and that she was the one who had to take the consequences, but that she did so without complaint only reinforced his love for her, paradoxical as that was at the moment.

Betty, of course, knew what travelling with Bruce would entail – hell, she'd married him, hadn't she? – and feared it was only a matter of time before her gentle encouragement and patience lost value. There were many reasons why she wanted this journey to be over quickly, including a return to home comforts, but part of her worried about the climax they were looking for; what if they never found Stephen? What if he refused to come back with them if they did? Or worse, didn't want to? They would do all in their power to convince him, she knew it, but Stephen Strange was almost as unpredictable as he was powerful. She prayed to God that he hadn't turned against them.

Their steady, silent descent soon levelled out into a familiar plateau, and when the path forked they chose to take the ascending trail, pushing against the wind as it tried to crush them against the stone. When it almost became too strong for Betty to walk against, Bruce came up next to her, pressing their bodies close and helping her onwards. It was a relief when they gradually turned out of it, able to walk upright and steadily if slowly, and still huddled together.

"We should've taken horses," Betty said. She'd mentioned it near the start of this trek, but Bruce had rejected the idea. His response now was no different.

"They'd struggle on this terrain as much as us. Besides, horses imply that we have something worth stealing, and I'd rather not…"

"What?" She frowned as he trailed off.

"I thought I heard something." Turning round, Bruce watched as a couple of large stones tumbled over the edge of the path in the opposite direction of the wind. He moved closer to where they'd been, noticing that the ground looked scuffled, as if someone had turned in a hurry, when the only people up here were him and Betty. Were they being followed?

Behind him, Betty gasped. "I did too," she said. "You mean that growl?"

"Growl? What gr-" Turning back to her, Bruce cut himself off mid-word as he not only heard exactly what his wife had heard, but saw where it had come from; a bear was ambling down the path towards them, and not a particularly small one either. Though it was late for bears to still be out, Bruce knew that any bear would happily take two humans as a final pre-hibernation meal, especially one this far out from civilisation. The wind had given it their scent, and they probably smelled pretty good.

"What do we do?" Betty asked, moving closer to Bruce's side.

Keeping his gaze on the bear, he swallowed heavily. "We fight."

"But we aren't fighters, Bruce."

"Yeah." He conjured a small fireball in the palm of his hand. "I know."

* * *

Darcy watched with amusement as Bobbi stormed over, murder written across her face. "That is the last time I let Jessica Drew borrow my boots!" she said angrily, dropping into the space on the couch.

"Isn't that what you said two weeks ago?" When Bobbi sent her a 'look', Darcy raised her hands and let it go. Instead, she pointed to one of the new girls Lady Sif had recently taken in, already surrounded by three drunk but interested clients. "She seems to be handling herself okay."

"Who, Greer?"

"Is that her name?"

Bobbi nodded. "Slave escapee. Got traded from some dead Sethi lord's household or something. Heard Lady Sif saying it was a miracle she still had her clan rings in."

"Clan rings? You mean those chains on her face?"

The older girl lightly cuffed her on the back of the head. "Talk louder, Darce, some people might not realise you're being ignorant." But as Darcy rubbed the back of her head, she leant back and explained Greer's 'chains' for her. "Greer comes from Seth, like Lady Sif. You know that the Sethi do things a little differently than we do, right? Well one of those different things is that they identify themselves through those chains. Now, look closely – Nysos, try to be discreet, girl! You see what they're attached to?"

Darcy wrinkled her nose. "Are those rings?"

She nodded. "Sethi pierce their cheekbones with clan rings. The more rings you have, the higher your status in society. The more important your place, the more elaborate the rings – so you can see Greer wasn't poor or anything. She's got, what – three rings with chains to the ear?"

"And that means…?"

Bobbi shrugged. "Perhaps her lord gave her them, I dunno. Ask her one day."

"Do you think she'd mind?" She didn't receive an answer, and continued to watch the new girl regaling her admirers with tales of a far-off land. "Wait a minute," she said abruptly as something Bobbi said registered. "You said Lady Sif was from Seth, so why doesn't she have –"

"She did."

"So where –"

"Don't know."

"But then how do you know –"

"Because I've seen the scars, okay?" Bobbi hissed, glancing over her shoulder as if Lady Sif would suddenly materialise behind them. "She uses make-up to hide them, but a few of us have seen: she has clan ring scars."

Darcy frowned. "Why doesn't she wear them then?"

Bobbi shook her head. "I don't know, and I don't want to know. There are very few reasons why Sethi don't have their cheeks pierced, or bear scars where they once were. Either way, it'll be a touchy subject, so no bringing it up. Got it?"

Feeling a little berated, Darcy nodded, mind whirling as she watched Greer disappear with the only one of her admirers able to stand upright. She didn't know a whole lot about the Sethi besides what she'd just learnt now, they liked the sea, and their wine was damn good, but she couldn't really imagine Lady Sif as part of that culture. Part of her began to think Bobbi was pulling her leg a little, but that didn't stop her staring at the legendary courtesan's face when she appeared moments later with –

"The Shinga? Bloody hell, what does he want?" Bobbi muttered quietly. "Quit staring, Darce!"

Lady Sif and Nicholas Fury disappeared behind them, and Darcy saw every girl in the room relax instantly. Though he said and did very little in their presence, the Shinga's name could easily kick the tension up in the brothel thanks to the rumours people had heard about him, especially in regards to the eye-patch he wore. Darcy had heard he lost it fighting a krul, which had made Bobbi laugh. Either way, nobody dared ask, and Fury was the kind of guy who neither acknowledged nor dispelled such rumours. As some mage had once said as he passed through: "His secrets have secrets."

"Think Clint'll show tonight?" Darcy asked casually as another client strolled in.

Bobbi snorted. "No idea. If Fury's here, probably not." She slid a sly look in the younger girl's direction. "Why? Hoping James'll be with him?"

Darcy shrugged. "It would be nice. He started his noble stuff recently I think."

"How d'you know that?"

"Falcon told me."

"Sam?"

"Yeah. He's still watching that Rogers guy, said he saw them together."

Bobbi snorted. "Well then I hate to break it to you Darce, but you've probably lost him."

"What?"

"He's hanging out with the upper class now," she said. "Lord Barnes won't have time for street scum like us."

Frowning, Darcy disagreed. "That's not true; James still works for the Sa'kagé!"

"Alright darling, keep your blouse on," Bobbi smirked. "Sheesh, you're almost as bad as Rogue."

"As bad as Rogue? How?" she asked a little indignantly.

"You're as sweet on Barnes as she is on LeBeau."

Darcy flushed. "Am not!"

"Please," Bobbi snorted. "Even Wade knows."

"Wade's weird."

"Exactly." Tucking her legs up underneath her, she scooted a little closer on the couch. "So tell me – what do you see in him?"

"Who, James?"

"No, fish-brain, King Odin. Of course James! Now tell."

Feeling the blush on her cheeks deepen, Darcy played with the hem of her blouse and shrugged casually. "He's nice to me, acts like a gentlemen around people he doesn't know, treats us all as people rather than pleasure things…"

"And he's hot, right?" There was a glint in Bobbi's eye as she said it, and Darcy couldn't help the stupid grin that split her face.

"Yeah, there's that too."

"But the, um, arm – that doesn't bother you?"

She shook her head. "It bothers him, though.

"How come?"

It seemed like an innocent question, just the usual line of gossip the girls followed when discussing clients behind their backs; but as Darcy recalled all the words shared between her and James in confidence, words he swore he didn't share with anyone else, insecurities, anxieties, hopes, dreams, and the odd promise, she came to the conclusion that nobody else needed to know the answer to Bobbi's question. "It's not for me to say."

"What? Come on Darce, I'm not gonna go blagging to Lady Sif or anything."

She remained resolute. "Nope – I'm not telling. And there's nothing you can say that'll make me, either. What passes between me and James is private."

Bobbi leaned back. "Really?" Her eyes narrowed, and just when Darcy began to squirm she grinned. "He tells you about his hits, doesn't he?"

Darcy's jaw dropped. "How did you… I never said –"

"But you haven't denied –"

"You can't just assume –"

"I don't need to, you're giving everything away pretty –"

"You mustn't tell –"

"Tell who what, that you're the Winter Soldier's –"

"Shut up!"

"Make me." Darcy jabbed her in the side. "Ow! Nysos, Darcy, I hope you don't do that to your clients!"

"You can't tell anyone that James and I… talk," she insisted, arms folded sternly (she hoped) across her chest. "Promise me, Bobbi. Please."

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Alright darling, no need to panic – my lips are sealed." Her face was a mask of disapproval, though. "I really don't think you should get too close to him, though."

"Why not?"

She just shrugged. "A wetboy who 'talks' that much is headed for disaster. You'll only get your heart broken, darling, and I don't wanna see that happen."

Behind them and around the corner, Lady Sif and the Shinga exchanged a look. "Is she right?" the courtesan asked.

Fury raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall you having any issues with one of your girls finding interest in one of my wetboys before."

"That's because the wetboy in question was never a former Khalidoran weapon."

"Then I don't know," he answered. "I thought you said your girls told you everything they picked up from their clients?"

"As far as I know, James Barnes is not a client," Lady Sif returned coolly. "Yes, he comes to see Darcy, but as you've just heard he comes for a different reason."

"The Winter Soldier seeking comfort." Fury snorted. "I'd never have believed it."

"We all need reassurance sometimes, Nick," she reminded him.

His lone eye bore a hole into her forehead. "But you're worried."

She didn't deny it. "Darcy's innocent. Most of my girls are."

"Are they? I wouldn't say betraying a man's trust makes one innocent, Sif."

A twitch in her jaw was the only sign his words made any impact. "The Winter Soldier had no problem hurting innocents in order to reach his goal before his miraculous change of heart. He was also an exceptional conman."

The Shinga looked surprised. Sif took muted pride in the fact that she was probably the only person in Midcyru who repeatedly (if infrequently) caused these momentous occasions. "You're worried Barnes isn't loyal."

"This is Khalidor we're talking about, Nick. Nobody from that twisted place feels guilt or remorse over anything, and the Vurdmeisters aren't half-arsed about their 'projects'. I don't believe they'd let their best weapon run wild without looking for him, especially when their own informants are being cut down in quick succession. On top of that, we have no idea where he's been before he stumbled into the city."

"He was with the Banners."

"And before that?"

"The river plains."

"Before that?" He had no answer. "Exactly. He could have been anywhere, done anything, then come to us with convenient loss of memory."

Two pieces clicked in Fury's head. "The wine scare."

"He could easily have orchestrated it without us knowing."

The uncovered eye narrowed at her accusingly. "I thought you liked this one? What do you gain from this stirring?"

Sif shook her head, a deep frown marring her beautiful face. "I do not speak these words lightly, Nick, but I've already said: I'm worried for my girls. If it turns out I'm wrong, then believe me I shall be as relieved as everyone else. Until then, however, I'm entertaining the worst possible scenario. As should you."

"Neither Potts nor Stark saw anything out of the ordinary when he visited them with Coulson. If they had, they would have flagged it up."

"Triggers don't have to be activated by magic. You remember what happened to one of your own, don't you?" She stepped forward into his personal space. "You and Hill almost died then. I doubt The Winter Soldier has the same emotional attachments Hawkeye does."

Unperturbed by how close she had suddenly come to him, Fury decoded her meaning and nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Putting the last finishing touches to his latest morning puzzle for Barnes, Wade stepped back to admire his handiwork. It was a thing of beauty, if he did say so himself: he'd rigged up several pressure points on and around the bed that, when activated, sent paper-thin throwing stars hurtling towards it at head height that Barnes would have to dodge if he wanted to keep his brain intact (or as intact as it still was). To make it harder, he'd camouflaged the pressure points to look like wood. Wade grinned; sometimes he surprised even himself.

_~You can't surprise me.~_

The wetboy sighed. The ka'kari always tried to ruin his moments.

_~Not always.~_

'Will you quit doing that?'

_~Doing what?~_

'Reading my mind!'

_~It's not your mind I'm reading.~_

Confused, Wade ignored the ka'kari and turned his attention to the shadow of Barnes' sleeping form. 'He's a bit quiet tonight, isn't he?'

_~And that's a bad thing?~_

'Maybe, maybe not. Think I should poke him to make sure he's not poisoned?'

_~And undo all that work you just admired?~_

'Ah. Good point.' Turning on the spot Wade jumped up, hooking his fingers round the edge of the hole he'd made to get in and pulled himself out, replacing the planks before using the ka'kari to cut another gap in the roof. 'You know, I think we should actually get some bats in there, just to convince Barnes it's not us making the holes.'

_~I doubt he bought the lie the first time you told it.~_

He dropped down to the ground, using his Talent to soften the fall. 'But if I told him that's how we got in, he wouldn't –'

"Wilson."

Deadpool, no matter what James would say later, did not squeal. "Oh, hey Barnes. How come you're up so late-slash-early?"

Arms folded across his chest, Barnes tipped his head to the side. "I was considering asking you the same question, Wade; along with: 'what the hell were you doing to my room-slash-roof?'"

"Uh…"

_~Go on, throw him the bat line. I dare you.~_

"Getting rid of bats for you. You know, 'cause they were causing you so much grief –"

"With pressure spots and throwing stars?"

"To get 'em while they're flying!"

Barnes looked decidedly unimpressed. "How would they hit pressure spots on the floor if they fucking fly?"

"…poop." Wade could hear the ka'kari laughing at him.

"Oh, knock it off, Wilson! I know you get that cracky-car thing to help you make those fucking traps!"

_~I don't appreciate being called that.~_

"It's a ka'kari," Wade corrected, "and how did you know?"

"That's not important." Barnes stepped forward until they were nose to nose. "Stop booby-trapping my bedroom, Wade. It wasn't funny to start with, and it isn't funny now."

"I'd like to disagree –"

"I couldn't give a shit." His tone was pretty threatening, and Wade was itching to whip out his swords and go for round two.

_~We can't. Fury would probably make us regret it in some painful, sadistic way.~_

"Shit – Fury!"

Barnes blinked. "What?"

Wade just grinned at him. "Sorry Frosty. As much as I'd love to go toe-to-toe with you again, I have a meeting with a certain one-eyed underground warlord, and both beating your ass and being late are ways to ensure my ball-sack gets roasted in front of me."

The other wetboy made a face. "I did not need to – wait, what did you just call me?"

"Frosty." Barnes glowered. "Well I can't keep calling you Newbie now, can I?" Waving goodbye he used the ka'kari to literally turn invisible ('I love it when you make me do that!'), and after waiting a moment to see Barnes flip out somewhat he hurried into the depths of the city to find the safe house the Shinga had told him to be in at sunrise. He arrived at the same time as the man himself, and waited until he'd sat down before revealing himself in the opposite chair. Fury didn't looked fazed one bit.

"Wade. It's good to see you."

Wade snickered at the pun, then paused. "It is?" He narrowed his eyes. "I think you're lying."

"Oh?"

"Yeah…" He pointed at Fury's eye-patch. "You can only half-see me. Therefore, you meant to say 'it's good to half-see you' instead."

Already, Fury was regretting organising this meeting. "I need you to shut up and listen to me for a few minutes, Wilson. Can you do that?"

"Define 'a few minutes'." Fury glowered at him. "Alright, alright, I'll do my best. Just because it's you, and not because you have a scarily convincing half-glower going on there. Seriously, what's it like with two –"

"I have a job for you." The Shinga wasted no time in getting to the important parts. "Barnes needs an eye kept on him."

Wade nodded. "Which one – left or right?"

"Both. He's a former Khalidoran weapon, and I don't care what he claims about his past and his new allegiances: I have to know that there's no chance of the Godking getting him back into enemy territory."

Slightly confused that the order was only coming through now, after Barnes had been working with them for so long, Wade pressed the point. "I agree with you one-hundred per-cent on that, oh mighty Shinga, but let me point out something you may have missed: he's been killing so-called Khalidoran 'agents'. Would our enemy really send him to work for their enemy?"

Fury tilted his head. "How many ex-wetboys are dead because of you, Wilson?"

He paused. "Touché."

"As I was saying, he needs to be watched closely – by you. Everything needs to check out. He does something suspicious, I want to know."

"Surveillance? You're asking me to do surveillance?" Wade asked incredulously. "But Ni- Fury, that's such a mind-numbingly horrible waste of my talents! Why can't old Gambles do it?"

The Shinga ground his teeth. "Gambit is out of town, and will be for the foreseeable future." He was sure the wetboy muttered another sight-related quip under his breath, and chose to ignore it. "Whine all you like, but I know you're just as capable of surveillance as any other wetboy on my list."

"But I like Barnes – he's my friend!"

Fury raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Deadpool shrugged. "I don't know. Thought that might make you think I'd feel guilty."

"In all the years I've worked with you, I've never once seen a hint of a conscience in you, Wilson. Why would you suddenly develop one now? If you truly were his friend, you wouldn't still be having this conversation with me."

"That's a very good point; what happens if I say no? I know my rights – I have a right to decline!"

"Go ahead, decline," he invited, spreading his hands and leaning back in his chair. "But if you do, I'll give the go-ahead to start exploring the limitations of that ka'kari of yours."

_~I don't like the sound of that.~_

Remembering how close he'd come to ending up on an examination table before convincing the Sa'kagé trio to hire him on (as well as all the frighteningly specific things – a lot of them, too – they'd wanted to do to him), Wade gave up. "Okay, you got me. But I just have one question."

Fury rolled his eye. "Of course you do."

"Why would I have to kill him, exactly? Assuming that's your plan for a Winter Soldier double-cross, full-out-betrayal situation."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "James Barnes knows things," he explained, "not just about Khalidor, but about the Sa'kagé and Cenarian nobility, too. I don't need to outline to you what could happen if that information goes North."

_~He knows about me as well.~_ For once in his life, Wade Wilson showed his understanding by keeping his mouth shut.


	9. Underground Conspiracies

**AN: **Two small apologies: one, for this update coming kinda late, and two, if things get slightly complicated/confusing in the last part of the chapter. It all makes sense in my head...

* * *

When Winter Strikes

**9. Underground Conspiracies**

_"You sure you're okay, Bucky?"_

_From where he was huddled against the wall, Bucky looked up and put on his best grin. "Yeah, kid – 'm alright." Getting up was hard, and his stomach hurt like a bitch from where Schmidt had socked him, but he didn't want the little guy to see him badly hurt; God knows what he'd do then. Wavering a little, he clapped his hand on a skinny shoulder. "How'd ya know we were there?"_

_"Chester said Hydra had kidnapped a load of us, and when I went back to the shelter nobody was around." He shrugged his free shoulder, a shy smile on his face. "I just put two and two together, that's all."_

_Dum Dum snorted. "Smart and brave, huh? We'd probably've been in deep shit if you hadn't shown up."_

_"You mean we weren't already?" Falsworth asked._

_"Shut it, Falsworth."_

_"What did they do to you anyway?" Bucky found himself being watched by deeply concerned blue eyes, and shrugged as loosely as he could, ignoring his screaming muscles._

_"Roughed me up a little 's all. Nothin' I can't handle." He looked around, making sure everyone had actually made it out like they thought. "Toro not with ya?"_

_"He went looking for dues before news got out. I didn't know where he'd gone, so I just came by myself."_

_Everyone's eyebrows flew up. "Seriously?" Gabe asked._

_"What possessed you to do that?" Falsworth added._

_The kid blinked. "My friends were in trouble."_

_Dernier babbled something, which Gabe translated: "It's a miracle he wasn't snapped in two!"_

_Morita turned to Dum Dum. "What were you saying about him being smart?"_

_"Shut –"_

_"Hey!" Bucky shouted, getting their attention. Looking back at their stupid-brave friend, he grinned sincerely for the first time since they'd been rescued. "He got us out when no-one else would even try. He's the size of a stray dog and not even the biggest big in the Warrens could stop him! Yeah, maybe he was a little stupid for tryin' on his own," he said pointedly, making the boy glance down sheepishly, "but he sure as hell's brave for doin' it! And I'm glad he did!"_

_They all congratulated him then, slapping him on the back (but not too hard – he was still as strong as a twig for all his heroic antics) and mussing up his hair. Dum Dum and Dernier started doing impressions of a duped Schmidt until a high-pitched whistle caught all their attention. "Yo! Where you losers been?" a voice called from a nearby roof._

_Bucky rolled his eyes. "Right back at ya, asshole!" he yelled, and Toro's laughter was the response._

_"Alright Buck, keep ya pants on!" He hopped down from the mud hut, beaming in the face of six glares and one quirked eyebrow. "You wanna know where I've been?"_

_Dum Dum snorted. "Due hunting, apparently. Left the little guy to come get us himself."_

_Toro seemed undeterred. "Yeah, but while he was doin' that, I bet you guys were gettin' ass-whooped, right?"_

_"Nah. Just Bucky really," Morita said, raising his hands at the scowl thrown his way._

_"Figures," Toro smirked. _

_"What're ya gettin' at, Toro?" Bucky snapped._

_He hoisted a bag up, nearly as big as a little's head, and there was no mistaking the jingle of coins inside. "Boys, we ain't gonna need to beg for a while!"_

_Once the bounty had been equally divvied up, Bucky sucked in a breath and elbowed the little soldier in his ribs. "C'mon," he said, "let's get somethin' to eat."_

_He nodded. "Where are we going to go?"_

_Looking at the coins in his hand, Bucky smiled. "How 'bout somewhere awesome?"_

* * *

James was trying (and failing, judging by the grin on Steve's face) not to look too awe-struck. A nobleman would probably have been to places like this since childhood, and James Barnes had supposedly been to grand abodes across the land as he grew up, but the reality was that James barely remembered seeing any house as big and stunning as the one they were stood in front of now. Like most buildings in Cenaria it was very un-Cenarian, and would have looked better-placed in Ceura, but in that respect it fitted perfectly with the rest of the un-Cenarian architecture; that it was just considerably grander was what made it stand out.

"Impressive, right?" Steve said beside him.

James became aware that his jaw was hanging open and promptly closed it. "It looks…" 'Awesome' didn't seem appropriate. "Does the Duke live here alone?"

Steve shook his head. "He's a busy man who likes to entertain people. Feasts are his kind of thing. You must have met him at the King's last one?"

He thought of the huge man who'd knocked the wind out of him with one 'pat' on the back and nearly deafened him with his laughter. "He was hard to miss. Guess he likes to show off a little, huh?"

"Not intentionally," the Captain said, reaching forward to pull on the large brass knocker. "The Odinsons are the second richest family in Cenaria after the Borsons. His Lordship had this built after he returned from Ceura – he spent some time out there at the behest of his father, learning how to be honourable according to the rumours. He's also been to Alitaera I believe, though why I'm not sure."

"How long was he there for?"

He shrugged. "A year or two? I really don't know. Whatever his reasons though, it affected his family's favour with King Odin."

James frowned. "What do you mean by that?" Steve looked hesitant, like he didn't want to say anything, but before James could press him the huge door was opened and a servant ushered them into a tall, spacious entrance hall, assuring them Duke Odinson would be with them shortly. As soon as they were alone, James turned back to Steve and asked again what he'd meant.

Sighing unhappily, the Captain glanced around. "You promise you won't tell anyone what I'm about to say to you?"

He nodded. "I swear, My Lord."

It was an infuriating minute before Rogers worked up the courage to tell him. "I don't like to gossip," he began in a low tone, "but the Duke's absence likely had an impact on who the King chose as his successor."

"How so?"

"Everyone assumed that, with no children of his own, King Odin would name Thor Odinson his successor, but during His Lordship's absence the King chose Loki Laufeyson instead."

"A Laufeyson?" Steve nodded. "Why would he do that? I thought nobody liked –"

Their hushed conversation was abruptly cut short by the sound of a door opening and a loud argument coming to some sort of end. "– family and my family are not the same!"

A man with dark hair strode out, eyes blazing, and he was quickly followed by Thor Odinson, a larger figure with long, blonde hair. Neither seemed to notice James and Steve. "I am only trying to do what is best for you!" Thor shouted, voice echoing around the hall.

"Then stay out of my private affairs!"

"Loki!" The door was wrenched open and the dark-haired man disappeared.

As the room quietened, Thor sighed, wide shoulders sagging as he turned to his guests, expression a mixture of fury and despair. "I'm sorry you had to see that, my friends," he said.

Steve held up a hand. "There's no need to apologise, My Lord," he said, turning to James to wait for a similar assurance.

James, however, was not currently with them – at least, not mentally. He was back in the underground rooms the Vürdmeisters had kept him in, having just woken up from the sleep they forced him into, and a couple of them were leaving the room – except one of them wasn't a Vürdmeister. He didn't even appear to be a Meister, and paid no attention to James as they left, but he had long-ish dark hair and very striking green eyes…

"James!"

Jumping at the sound of his name, James blinked, and the Red Room disappeared; there were no Vürdmeisters, no Loki Laufeyson, just Thor, Steve, and a lavish entrance hall of Ceuran design. A dull ache had started at the back of his head, and he rubbed it absently. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I just… drifted off."

Duke Odinson smiled. "I must apologise too, Lord Barnes, on behalf of Lord Laufeyson. He arrived unannounced this morning, accusing me of inserting myself into his affairs."

James nodded, still slightly numb from the revelation he'd just had, and Steve stepped in to fill the silence. "Are Peggy and Lady Foster nearby?"

The change in Lord Odinson was sudden – his face lit up, and James half-expected the sun itself to burst from him. "Indeed they are! They deigned to take a turn around the gardens – I shall have the staff inform them of your arrival!"

As a servant scurried away to bring the ladies back inside, James couldn't help but imagine how Darcy would react to all of this, and him having dinner with Duke Odinson (who, apparently, was a noble Lady Sif's girls planned to draw lots on should the occasion arise). The thought also made him aware that he was the only one present without a date; Lord Odinson was courting Lady Jane Foster, a pretty brunette who was almost comically short against him, and word amongst the nobility was that The Question would be coming any day now.

What Steve had said about Thor having a thing for feasts was, James decided, an understatement. There was a lot of food in great variety spread out on the dining table, and he wondered if the Duke regularly ate three times a normal man's portion. He was seated next to Lady Foster, Steve and Peggy opposite them, with Thor at the head of the table, and after toasting the King they dug in. Thor and Steve chatted (loudly) like old friends, with Peggy adding a comment in here and there, leaving James to converse with Lady Foster.

"Is it nice to be back in Cenaria?" she asked.

He gave a polite shrug as he finished chewing. "It isn't too bad. It was hard at first with my financial problems, but now that everything is sorted I find I'm quite enjoying myself, My Lady."

She smiled. "Please, call me Jane. I was never one for formalities."

"Then I'm James," he returned with a grin.

"Where were you before you came home?"

"Ossein."

Her face lit up. "Really? I was there myself not too long ago. Do you know of the Chantry?"

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"I befriended a sister there, and was permitted to stay for a few days. I'm fascinated by magic," she explained, "but I can't use it myself, so I've decided to write a book about it."

"Forgive me, but aren't there already plenty of books on magic?"

A slight pink crept into Jane's cheeks. "Yes, there are, but this one will be different."

James raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"This book will look at the connecting factors required to become a mage," she said. "I'm going to study each component needed – largely a person's glore vyrden, of course, but other contributors such as psychology, physicality, genetics – and see how they all contribute to one's ability to use magic, and to what degree each one is necessary."

He nodded appreciatively. "Sounds like a big project."

She tilted her head. "You mean for a lady?"

"No," he assured her hastily, having witnessed what happened when Peggy believed Steve was insinuating something patriarchal. "For anyone."

After a beat Jane nodded, turning back to her plate. "I've been working on it for some time now. I can't imagine what I'll do when it's finished."

"Why don't you look at another aspect?" he suggested, continuing when she looked at him with confusion. "You could explore why spells are formed through weaves, why women need to speak to cast, or why elements don't need weaves at all."

Jane stared at him for a moment, then surprised him by laughing. "Goodness! I'm going to be doing research for the rest of my life at this rate."

"Perhaps you'll become an expert."

Her smile was full of warmth. "Perhaps." She didn't understand the relevance of that statement to James' own life. Their conversation had, however, diverted his thoughts away from the troubling revelation caused by the appearance of Lord Laufeyson – he had to tell Fury. What Steve had said earlier about the King changing his mind when naming his heir seemed like exactly the sort of thing the Vürdmeisters would orchestrate, and warning bells were going off in his head. Ignoring them, he ate his meal, kept up conversation, and left in the early hours of the morning, pleasantly warm from whatever glorious beverage Thor had insisted on pouring for them time after time.

"Enjoying the high life, are we?"

Stumbling a little in surprise, James turned to glare over his shoulder as Hawkeye sauntered up behind him, shit-eating grin on full display. "So what if I am?"

Clint rapped his skull. "Shouldn't let it get to your head."

"You'll prevent that from happening, I'm sure."

"Count on it." They began walking again, Clint matching James' slower stride and not saying much more. After several hours of loud, constant conversation, the silence irritated James.

"Did you want something, Clint?"

"A couple of things, yeah."

"Spill."

"Coulson sent me to find you," he began. "He has a contract for you, but said to tell you to go see Stark tomorrow first."

James frowned. "Stark?"

"Yep. Didn't say why."

"Wonderful," he groaned.

"Now that I've found you though, how about me and you take a trip to Asgard before the night gets old?"

"What, didn't want to go and see Bobbi on your own?"

"Dude, it's Darcy I'm thinking of here. On your behalf, of course," he added hastily. "Jess said you haven't been in a while. The girl's missing you."

Somehow, Clint's cajoling got the better of him, and they soon found themselves at their usual (too-frequent, if you asked James) haunt. When they stepped inside, however, they were surprised to see nearly all the girls gathered around two men; one of them James recognised as Sam, aka Falcon, one of Fury's spies with a thing for birds, but the other guy was someone new. He had dark, messy hair on top of a youthful face, and he was grinning as though he was compensating for Sam's lack of humour. James thought the completely orange outfit was a little unusual, but then unusual was considered normal in these parts of Cenaria. Either way, the girls seemed… fond of him.

"James!" Blinking out of a reverie, James was pleasantly surprised to find Darcy tugging on his arm. "Come and say hello!" she said, dragging him over to Sam and the new guy as Clint followed eagerly behind. "You know Sam, right?"

Sam nodded once. "Barnes. Barton."

Clint waved a hand. "Hey, Sam. Who's the hot stuff?"

'Hot stuff' turned round, suddenly freezing the moment he locked eyes with James. For a long time nobody said anything – not even Clint – then the guy frowned. "Do I know ya?" he asked.

Rubbing the back of his head, James thought hard. A lot of his memories were still missing, but he couldn't picture the man from anywhere. Most of his 'visits' to Cenaria as the Winter Soldier had generally been to the noble areas, and this guy was clearly anything but nobility. "Nope, don't think so."

"Oh." His shoulders seemed to deflate, happy face falling into something much sadder. "Sorry," he said a moment later, some of the brightness returning, "ya just look like someone I knew once."

James snorted. "I've heard that one before."

Sam stepped forward. "James Barnes, Clint Barton, this is Toro Raymond."

"Nice to meet ya, fellas," Toro grinned, extending a hand to each of them.

"Likewise," Clint returned, an easy smile on his face. James just smiled, the awkwardness of not being who Toro thought he was still lingering. "What's with the orange get-up?"

Toro shrugged. "People say it's my colour. Not as much as green, but that's for when ya get past the orange," he explained with a wink. Clint laughed.

Wanda appeared from the back rooms with a bird of prey perched on her arm, making her way over to their group. She needn't have bothered – as soon as the bird caught sight of Sam it was off, startling a few of the girls as it flew across the lounge to his waiting arm. He stroked its chest tenderly, then nudged Toro in the side. "We're good here," he said.

"Right. Nice to see ya again, girls!" Toro called as they moved to the door. "Look after these gents for me, 'kay?"

Clint grinned at the chorus of giggles the comment elicited, but James noticed the wistful look Toro pinned on him as he left. He would have thought more about it if Darcy hadn't spoken up when she did; "Don't take that the wrong way. It's Toro's way of saying he likes you."

"Oh yeah?" James let her lead him away from Clint and the other girls, grateful for the fact that Lady Sif wasn't watching them this time. "Didn't think Fury hired friendly guys."

She shook her head. "He doesn't work for Fury."

"He doesn't?"

"No."

"Then what was he doing with Sam?"

They'd reached Darcy's bedroom, and she pushed the door open quickly. It still amused him a little to know that each door was completely silent, despite the age of the hinges – another false impression. "They're old friends. Known each other since before Sam got in with the Sa'kagé."

"How long is that, then?"

Her face screwed up a little as she worked it out. "Bit over ten years? I don't know. Sam's younger than Toro, so he started at Baxter's later, I think."

James' eyebrows rose. "Baxter's? You mean…"

Darcy stared at him for a second, then smirked. "What, you didn't know Sam used to be a rent boy?"

He couldn't help his cheeks colouring a little. "Um, no. So, does that mean that Toro's…"

"Still a rent boy? Yep." She grinned as he turned a deeper shade of red. "He comes round every once in a blue moon, and because he's one of the only guys who actually visits because he likes us rather than wants us, he's like everyone's gay best friend."

Nodding, James thought back to that last wistful glance. "He told you all to look after me and Clint, and you said –"

"He likes you. And I guess he does." Darcy shrugged lightly as she stepped closer. "Toro's quick to make friends is all. He won't actually hit on you unless he thinks you swing the same way, so don't worry 'bout him."

"I won't." Not in that respect, anyway. Reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Darcy's forehead (with his metal hand – they'd gotten to the point where he felt comfortable using it normally around her, and she'd stopped reminding him that she didn't mind it a while ago), any thoughts of his past and the tension he'd felt since leaving Thor's began to trickle away, and he smiled easily.

"I've missed you," she murmured.

"Yeah? Sorry. I've been busy."

"Getting to know your new pal Captain Rogers?" At his open jaw, Darcy chuckled. "Don't worry – it's between you, me, and Sam. I promise."

Deciding not to ask how Sam was involved, he rolled his eyes. "Can't keep anything secret, can I?"

"Is it nice? Being a noble?"

James shrugged. "The food's great, I guess. Not to mention the houses are fucking huge – but it's a hard lifestyle for the gossip alone." He smirked. "Remind me to thank Coulson for not ranking me higher."

"What," she laughed, "you're telling me you wouldn't want to be a Duke with a fucking huge house and great food?"

He moved to the bed, sitting on its end as he shook his head. "Not after what I saw today I wouldn't."

They fell into their old pattern instantly, lying side by side on the bed, sharing worries and anecdotes like people who'd known each other all their lives. Darcy liked the sound of Duke Odinson and Lady Foster, eyes wide as James described the Duke's mansion as best as he could, and grew concerned when he mentioned Duke Laufeyson and the possible memory he'd triggered. It still bugged James: the more he thought about it, the less sure he was that it was a memory, and not just him confusing Loki with someone else the same way Steve and Toro had done. When he asked if she could provide any insight, Darcy was unable to be of any assistance. "Tony might know something," she suggested. "Why don't you ask him tomorrow?"

He frowned. "Why would Stark know things about Loki Laufeyson?"

She made a face. "He seems to know about everything. He's like the one that Fury almost recruited but didn't."

"I can see why," he huffed. Having Tony Stark know your secrets was like sending them out to all the nations via carrier pigeon.

"What do you think wants you for?"

"Not sure," he admitted quietly, then raised his arm. "He seemed interested in this the first time we met. Could be he wants to take another look."

Darcy shifted on to her side. "What has Steve said about it?"

James swallowed. "He… hasn't." Glancing at her sideways, he lowered it back to the bed and sighed. "I've kept it covered; made up some story about a spell gone wrong. He's too nice to pry."

"Will you ever tell him?" she asked softly.

He paused to think about it. "Maybe."

"Will you ever tell me?"

Tipping his head to look her full in the face (and realising she was a lot closer than he'd anticipated), he nodded. "One day."

"Soon?"

"Soon."

"You promise?"

To move closer, to press his lips against hers for a few, breathless seconds, then to rest their foreheads together, real hand finding hers somewhere between them – it all seemed so natural, as did the smile that spread across his face when he looked far into those warm, clear eyes. Really, it was like they'd both been waiting for it to happen, and now, at last, it had. "Promise."

* * *

As it turned out, James' suspicions were correct: Tony Stark wanted to play with the metal arm and its many weaves. After startling the mage and nearly earning himself a fireball to the face, he was lead inside to the workshop area where Stark had first forged his nobility papers and told to sit at the work bench, arm out.

"Can you take it off?" Tony asked.

He shook his head. "I think the weaves would break if that happened. They never removed it, from what I remember."

"That's a shame." There was a knock at the door, and Tony turned to his dog. "Jarvis?" The dog obediently hauled himself up from where he was sat – with a small huff, if James wasn't mistaken – and padded out towards the door.

"How'd you train him like that?" he had to ask.

"He's very smart," Tony replied, face buried in a draw halfway up the wall. "Sometimes I think he used to be human. That, or he's a god in disguise."

"I really hope not," James muttered as the canine in question returned, Phil Coulson following him.

"Gentlemen."

Tony turned, smiling. "Coulson. Not like you to be late."

The Shinga's hand merely blinked. "I was tied up."

"Again? You know, I think you should ask Hill to stop doing that to you, it's not good for your punctuality."

James snorted into his shoulder and felt rather than saw Coulson stare at him. "I think you should ask Sister Potts to move in with you," he countered coolly. "She does wonders for your personality."

"My personality's fine as it is. Isn't it Jarvis?" From where he'd lain back down, Jarvis didn't even so much as raise his head.

"I don't think he agrees," James said.

"Do you see him disagreeing?" Tony returned to the work bench with a handful of small tools, including two pairs of tweezers, and a band around his head with some sort of magnifying glass attached to it. "Now, it is imperative that you stay absolutely still."

"Why?"

"I don't want to blow up."

He swallowed. "Uh, I don't think it'll do that."

Tony snorted. "This is Khalidor's work. I'm only taking as many precautions as they would to preserve you and whatever's in here." He knocked on James' skull for emphasis.

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Are there traps?" Coulson asked. He'd found a stool to perch on and was watching procedures with the same, clinical gaze he always wore.

"Not yet," the mage muttered, peering down at the arm with a pair of tweezers in each hand.

"There weren't any on my head," James offered.

Coulson frowned. "Your head?"

"It's how they messed with my memory. The B – the person who looked at it said there might have been some, but they didn't find anything. If there had been, I don't think I'd be here."

"Nice to know the evil masters cared about your good features," Tony said.

"You really know how to compliment a person, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Pepper taught me."

After a few minutes of silence, James grew curious – and a little worried. "What are you doing?"

"Just… having a peek at these layers," Tony explained. "There's a lot… and I'm trying to see them all without – breaking any of them."

"And if you did break one?" Coulson asked first.

His eyes flicked up briefly. "The arm would melt."

"Melt," James echoed in disbelief.

"Yep."

"Why melt?" That Coulson seemed unconcerned about the possibility of James being rendered limbless was oddly comforting.

"Because it's made of liquid metal," Tony said as if it was obvious. "All these weaves, they're holding it in shape – allowing it the sturdiness… of real metal, but the fluidity of a non-metal. I wish I could do that," he added in a mutter.

"So the weaves act in a similar matter to the ka'kari?"

Tony actually stopped, sitting up straight to look at Coulson directly. "I don't know. I've never been able to study the ka'kari, so how would I?"

The tension suddenly rocketed. James felt it, and saw Jarvis sit up in his corner. Some unspoken message was passed between the mage and the Shinga's hand before Tony silently went back to navigating the structure on James' arm, but something close to bitterness still lingered in the air above their heads. He cleared his throat. "So, uh, what else does this non-metal thing mean?"

"Not sure," Tony mumbled, "but it looks like they've taken the best properties of the best metal and… combined it with the best properties of liquid metal." Coulson asked for some examples. "Liquid doesn't stay in one shape, can't rust, doesn't get marked. This metal won't go dull, it doesn't have any blemishes or indents on it, it's light, but also very strong. That, and it holds weaves better than a basket maker."

"If it doesn't stay in one shape then why does it look like an arm?"

"That's the metallic property." James stared at him, and he sighed. "Think of it as liquid metal in a flexible mould, with the weaves as the mould."

"How many weaves would need to be broken for the mould to break?" Coulson asked.

Tony stared at something between his tweezers. "Not many." He quickly explained to James that, on the plus side, they could only be broken by being pulled apart, which was something only a magic user could do, Talent users excluded. This, of course, brought up more questions, and it was at least two hours before James decided his head hurt enough and he was bored of sitting still. Trying to work out the stiffness of his other muscles he bid goodbye to Tony and Coulson before following Jarvis to the door.

Once the dog returned, Coulson waited for the mage to finish his delaying tactics as he fiddled with draws and tools, muttering to himself and Jarvis. "Well?"

Tony spun round. "You're still here?"

"What did you find, Stark?"

"I told you. I thought you were listening. Isn't that one of your special skills?"

"You told Barnes what he wanted to know, but the Shinga doesn't care about that."

There was a tiny twitch in Tony's jaw. "No, of course he doesn't," he muttered.

"Can it be done, Stark?"

"Do you even know what you're asking me?" he snapped. "No, let me rephrase that: do you even care?" Coulson didn't respond, physically or otherwise, and the mage sighed in frustration. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I could isolate it. Theoretically, anyway." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure how much of the original flesh limb still remains, but I think there's a way to preserve the weaves as they are even when cutting, or shortening, the ones keeping it attached to his body."

Coulson nodded. "Thank you Stark." He turned to leave.

"You'd only be left with a lump of never-dulling metal though," Tony called, stopping him in his tracks. "Those liquid properties? They'd only still apply if attached to something living, something equally motional."

"That's not important." Coulson moved to leave again.

"Why?" Tony called. "Why did you want me to do this?"

"You're a researcher, Stark. It's what you do."

"You asked me to find a way to disable one of my friends, one of your own wetboys. I think I deserve one answer, at least."

Coulson eyed him for a long moment. "We need to be sure we can stop the Winter Soldier," he said, then pointedly looked upstairs. "Imagine if you could recreate those weaves on your suit." The Shinga's hand left Tony Stark, speechless, in the middle of his house.


End file.
